


The High Road

by ForFutureReference



Series: Reconstruction [1]
Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: District 2, Gen, Post-Mockingjay, Pre-Epilogue Mockingjay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-11 11:01:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 42,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4433006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForFutureReference/pseuds/ForFutureReference
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the fall of the Capitol, Gale Hawthorne finds himself stationed in District Two with an important mission at hand and a populace that really doesn't like him; the feeling's mutual. Will he be able to come to terms with his role in the Rebellion and forge a path for himself in this new Panem? Also, what will he learn about the people in his new home?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

***November 25, 200***

_SHOOT ME, DAMMIT! SHOOT ME!_

I try my best to mouth those words as white-gloved hands haul me up. Don't know what's going to happen once these assholes find out my identity, but I _do_ know that without the pill I'd rather be taken out with a quick shot. Instead of complying though, Katniss chooses to freeze like a deer caught in the crosshairs; little does she know that she probably condemned me to something worse than death. But I can't really hold it against her.

So as I'm dragged into the apartment, the next best thing I can do is to simply yell, "Go!" Hopefully she'll at least take that course of action.

The moment the door slams shut, I'm dropped unceremoniously on the ground before taking a quick look around while getting my breath back. There are at least two Peacekeepers, though I'm not sure if another's nearby. They don't seem to be paying much attention to me; so if I just lie low enough, I may be able to get a jump on them.

The Peacekeeper that dragged me in — his patch reads "Lee" — seats himself on the floor and lets out an exhausted huff of air. "Have they gone insane in the control room? They're killing more of our guys and the civvies than they are the rebs."

Lee's colleague — I think that tag says "Carson"; _dammit, I really shouldn't be reading these…_ — peers outside and mutters, "You could say that. Whole damn place has gone bonkers. Which is why we NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE!" he bellows with a scowl sent up the stairs. "What's taking Talc?"

Great, that means there are at least three Peacekeepers. _Still, if they're distracted, I can just…_

Of course Lee decides to check on me. "Hey, you alright there? That was a pretty clo—… oh hell…"

As the Peacekeeper's eyes widen, I try to reach for my gun, but he tackles me and calls his colleague over. Before long, the cloak and rest of the disguise are stripped away along with all of my weapons.

_Damn it… damn it… damn it…_

"Well if isn't Gale fucking Hawthorne…" Carson sneers as he binds me to haul up in a standing position. He also makes sure to securely fasten my bow and quiver to his own back. "Thanks for the souvenir. Bout time I got something useful out of this place."

"Valen, what are we supposed to do with him?" Lee hisses. "It's not like we're going to stop someplace and drop him off. And if Talc finds out—"

"I guess you'll have to kill me…" I grit out.

"Heh, pay up Geta; told you these guys never seemed like the type to surrender." I hear a sidearm being withdrawn. "Frankly, Hawthorne, this is going to be a blessing compared to—"

Whatever Carson's planning on comparing a summary execution to, he doesn't get a chance to say as a series of footsteps down the stairs heralds more people. Soon the Peacekeeper whom I assume is "Talc" comes walking down with a Capitolite family in tow; presumably a husband and wife with a baby in the latter's arms, a teenage girl, and an elderly man helped down by the Peacekeeper. The moment they reach the bottom of the stairs and Talc gets a good look at me, everybody freezes.

As if in slow motion, several things simultaneously happen: Carson mutters a choice string of profanities while holstering his gun; he and Lee let go of me and quickly move in opposite directions; a collective look of comprehension and fear emanates from the civilians as they hunker down; and something contorts Talc's face has she withdraws a sidearm of her own. And to herald time returning to normal, a flash of muzzle fire accompanies something punching my left shoulder.

As I topple to the ground, a wave of searing, eye-blurring pain blossoms out from the point of impact and is accompanied by the sound of a ragged scream; it barely registers that the scream is mine.

My vision manages to clear in time to grace me with the view of a _very_ pissed-off Peacekeeper advancing upon me.

_Well, this is it… Show me what you got, bitch._

To my surprise however, she's just a few feet away when Carson and Lee move to restrain her. _What are they doing?_

Talc is probably just as confused as me, though it appears that anger takes precedence as she struggles against them. "Let go of me!"

"Hey," Lee states through gritted teeth, "now's not the time."

"He's right here! Now's best as time as any!" _What's her problem?_ I've dealt with loud and fanatical Peacekeepers before, but there's something else about this woman. "You know what he did! _He_ knows what he did!"

Carson, in turn, lets off a sigh, "Yes, we all know this prick killed your folks and baby brother," _What?_ "but—"

"What the hell are you talking about?" I yell back as best as I can with a shoulder wound. "I never killed anybody's family! You're the ones who—"

"Don't lie!" Talc screams; it's then that I her voice break and figure out what is so different about this rant. "I saw what you did! I heard you! You were fucking proud of burying them!"

That's when it hits: my plans to cause an avalanche to block entrances; everybody telling me that a lot of people in the place were civilians; Katniss looking at me with an air of condemnation. But it had to be done, and those "civilians" knew what they were getting themselves into. And if they kept children in there, then it's on them.

Before I can think on that, Carson retorts, "I know. We all saw it too. And if you're going to shoot him, shoot him. But what you had planned… we don't have time for that."

"Valen's right; Pyke just sent out the last call a few minutes ago," Lee states with a pointed look towards the cowering civilians. "It's not just us you have to worry about."

The moment Talc follows her colleague's line on sight, something in her seems to gradually deflate, and she finally gives a small nod. Once they let her go, the Peacekeeper walks towards me with a demeanor that's the complete opposite from earlier; I can't see a single trace of emotion on her whatsoever.

Knowing what's coming my way, I manage to muster up a look of defiance towards my executioner as she raises her gun. _At least I can die knowing I brought you all do-AAAARRGH!_

I have just enough awareness over my own screams to figure out what just happened. Suffice to say, the bitch didn't shoot me in the face… or the chest. She shot me right above the elbow through the damn arm. The fact that my hands are still bound behind me doesn't help anything, so the best I can do to minimize the pain is to roll onto my right side and instinctively curl up.

The Peacekeeper doesn't bother finishing me off; instead, she holsters her gun and walks past me to lock the door before walking back towards the group waiting for her. However, she takes the time to kick my wound in each pass — the doubled wave of pain keeps me from doing anything other than balling up, and I'm just barely aware of my surroundings — and briefly stops to say, with a flat voice completely devoid of any emotion, "If by some chance you survive, I hope this will all come back to haunt you."

Then everybody departs through the back door; though not before Carson takes the time to taunt me further about his latest acquisition.

So I get to be left in this wonderful situation. Even through the pain blanketing me right now — it's actually up there with the whipping — I'm of clear enough mind to know that, if I don't get attention soon, blood loss is going to be a problem. Also, even if the doors aren't locked, it's doubtful that the rebels — from the sounds and shouts of outside, our lines have just past through this area and are about to break through — are just going to stumble upon me; so I'm going to have to get to them.

Between the cuffs and the wounds, I don't know how I manage to find the strength and patience. Yet somehow, I'm able to unlock the door and push it open. It's fortunate that my uniform is now visible and that I topple forward to hit the ground as the door opens up; because gunfire immediately strafes the door before there's a call to cease fire.

I'm so loopy from blood loss — or it could be the nerves — that the only reaction I can give at the bullet holes is a small giggle. As a medic examines me, I finally feel myself going under.

Though not before I hear the sound of explosions accompanied by a collective set of screams…

~oOo~

***Now***

The glass I'm holding almost slips out of my shaking hand. _Ah damn it; not again…_

My left arm may have been fixed by Capitol medicine, but it's still much weaker than it should be — I can't even hold the smallest of bows straight — and goes into a jittery state intermittently. This is especially the case whenever I recall that unpleasant day a couple weeks ago; the twinges at my bullet wounds don't help. Fortunately, I can put those shakes back under control.

However, it's not enough to stop my adviser from noticing. "Sir… are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Wilson," I mutter before looking him straight in the eye. "And what do you care?"

Just like that, any trace of concern on his face vanishes with a growl: "I don't." And he goes back to glowering at me with now-familiar unmitigated hatred. _Just like most people in this forsaken district…_

I really don't want to be in Two. However, Coin and Command assigned me to help clear out loyalist insurgencies. Granted, there's another reason I've been sent here: there's an asset that they now wish to claim; an asset which currently sits inactive as a testament to my handiwork.

Because what I once buried… I'll have to recover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As can be surmised, this fic is a critical look at Gale's role and mentality during the Rebellion through the lens of his actions and interactions after the Capitol fell.
> 
> I do feel the need to add that while this story is fairly critical, its purpose is NOT to bash Gale, and I don't consider him some sort of psychopath or sociopath who gets his jollies from strangling kittens, punting toddlers, and screwing sandwiches. If I thought that, then this story would be a one-shot that's one big set of humiliating events ending in public disgrace and the triggering of a pod that releases a pack of miniature rabid chinchillas that strip him to the bone… balls first.  
> ... I need to find a way to incorporate chinchilla mutts into at least one story
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy.


	2. Debate

If I didn't know better, I'd likely mistake Marcus Wilson for someone born in the Seam. Sure, the slight youth dresses and speaks, with that rolling and vowel-stressed accent, in a way that highlights his District Two background; there's an additional gravely quality to his voice that probably came from injury. His carefully-groomed hair is more chestnut than carbon. Oh yeah, and there's the small fact that he was part of the same faction of thugs who… oh, I dunno… oppressed this nation. Yet there's still a familiar silvery shade of gray in those constantly-alert eyes. Along with a puckered scar that mars his cheek, he even has a set of burn scars down his neck, just like on those who've survived a—

_No; he's nothing like us! If it weren't for people like him, we wouldn't be in this mess in the first place._

Still, the funny thing is… I actually remember this guy. Back when the Nut fell, I remember him doing something I would have never expected from the enemy. Right at the beginning, Wilson was kneeling in the square with his gun trained on Katniss; now _that_ I expected, and I was well-prepared to gun him down if he did anything funny. However, right after the Mockingjay fell — nobody knows who pulled the trigger; it's not Wilson, who put his gun down before the shot — and the crowd turned into a chaotic firefight, the Peacekeeper surprised me by hauling himself on top of her as shield until the situation was eventually pacified and medics were able to reach them.

I still don't know what to think of him.

With his willingness to protect Katniss, you'd have expected Wilson to defect over to the Rebellion like a good chunk of the other Peacekeepers; something I objected to due to the risk of them turning on our soldiers, and lo and behold, it _did_ happen more than a few times. Nope; he flat-out refused to actively be a part of our fight, only working as a sort of consultant due to some incentive given.

Frankly though, I'll be the first to admit that Wilson's pretty damn useful in terms of his knowledge about this district and its populace; it helps that he's a relatively popular individual for being both the one who stood up to the Mockingjay and shielded her helpless form. And right now, he's the number one resource in figuring out the layout of the Nut; he still calls it the Aedes Bellonae. Except that said usefulness doesn't stop the former Peacekeeper from being downright hostile to anybody wearing a rebel uniform — I guess we're technically not rebels anymore — and it's obvious that he saves most of said hostility for me.

Like right now.

After working with the guy for a couple weeks already, the constant glaring gets old. I mean, really, really old. "You know… it'd probably be good to get whatever is on your chest off."

"Are you sure about that, sir?" The flip-flopping between deference and insult — sometimes both at once — in that passive-aggressive manner of his isn't exactly what I'd consider endearing.

"Your attitude certainly isn't _helping_ make things progress smoothly. And you probably aren't going to say anything I haven't heard before."

He seems to mull that query in his mind a while, as if he legitimately fears something would happen if he does speak up. I don't know why he should; it's not like we're going to Avox him like his former masters. However, he finally looks me straight in the eye to state, "It's just that of all the people I have to work with, it just had to be the Butcher of the Districts."

I'm already expecting something bad, yet the nickname actually stings to my surprise. "Is that what they call me?"

"After all you've done, sir, are you honestly surprised?" He may have started calm, albeit still hostile, in the beginning; however, it's impossible to miss how his voice is beginning to shake through gritted teeth. I wouldn't be surprised if he's close to throwing a tantrum.

"Is this about the Nut?"

"WHAT ELSE WOULD IT BE ABOUT?" And there it is…

I'm honestly surprised someone else hasn't jumped me about this already; barring the messages left by those monsters who call themselves Heirs.

"I did what I had to do to win this war," I growl.

"You killed thousands of people…"

"SO DID YOU!" I shoot back. I can't believe he even has the nerve to bring the subject up in that manner. "I had to watch as my entire district was bombed before my eyes; as over _ninety percent_ of its population was wiped out. And when you weren't satisfied with that, you had to start targeting hospitals filled with the unarmed, wounded, and young."

Judging by the way Wilson's eyes widen, he's not expecting me to turn this back on him. "That wasn't me… I've never set foot outside my own district. Hell, you know that my role wasn't even in combat." 

"You still marched in cadence with the Capitol's tune." Screw this asshole's rage; I can feel the fire returning to my own blood. "Tell me, Wilson: have you ever seen an incendiary attack? Have you ever seen how bodies contort when they burn? Have you ever heard how people use their last breaths to plead for help as the buildings they are in turn into deathtraps, and how those pleas turn into screams… screams that run the full age spectrum from the infant to the elder? Well, I have, and I'll be damned before I let some Peacekeeper tell me that I can't balance the scales."

Despite my logic, Wilson still seems adamant. "I won't deny that what happened to District Twelve was horrible. And I could understand if the Aedes Bellonae only had military personnel, even though I'd probably still be pretty pissed since I knew many of those there. But it didn't. Excluding the Peacekeepers, the fact remains that almost ten thousand civilians worked or took refuge there; ten thousand men, women, and children. That's not balancing the scales; that's responding to a weight with a damn anvil. You could have at least given us a warning to evacuate, if not maintain a siege until the Capitol itself fell."

"And what, risk a mass-attack? Keep our forces tied up during your suggested siege while dealing with another enemy front bolstered by your facility? Also, those 'civilians'? Many 'civilians' joined the damn Heirs of Winter! Did you know what I had to deal with the other day? A family of five, all mercilessly lynched and burned; the youngest of whom was a toddler." I must be getting hitting a right spot with Wilson, because he immediately flinches. I know I did when I came across the scene; it will probably stick with me for a while. "And, of course, that blood-stenciled calling card with their symbol and a message about 'Capitol victory'. And why did this happen? This happened because the family found a good life after the war."

"The Heirs don't represent us," the former Peacekeeper murmurs before glaring back at me with renewed vigor. "Same that you'll probably say that all of the raping and looting didn't represent the Rebellion, but it still happened. And what about the children in the mountain?"

Before that argument would have taken me aback; now it just angers me. "Who decided to keep children inside a damn military installation? If your leaders cared about them so much, they would have let them and the other civilians go before the siege began, if not accept Lyme's offer to surrender. Because it was obvious that, once we took the city, we would come to turn our attentions to the Nut."

Yet instead of rebuffing Wilson, my point just eggs him on. "People stayed and kept their children there because they feared you… for good reasons! It may have not been everybody, but there were enough rebels killing and raping loyal and even neutral civilians to make people a bit leery about surrendering. Would you have taken such a chance with your family?"

"I…" Would I? After all they have done and after it's been made clear what Snow's capable of, if the Peacekeepers had surrounded Thirteen and told me to surrender Vick and Posy, would I have done so? Or would I have kept them close to me with the hope to ride out the storm? At least I never had to make that decision.

"Also…" the former Peacekeeper adds before I can complete my statement, "tell me, sir: have _you_ ever been in a sealed-off mine? Have you tried to maintain your composure and help others maintain theirs as the environment closes in on you? Have you tried to breathe as the ventilation gets clogged and the air gets taken up by the panicking masses? Navigate the darkened hallways for an exit only find corridor after corridor blocked? Have you dealt with electrical fires, flying debris, smoke, and trampling feet; people you know succumbing to those factors? Or have you heard the weak cries those trapped; knowing that there's nothing you can do to free them?"

I'll admit, when Katniss tried to use that argument, I brushed it away. But, even with some elements changed, when it's put like that… Somehow, something about it hits too close for comfort. Still… "Barring your attack on Thirteen? I was a coal miner. I _do_ know what it's like to be in an environment where a poorly-timed explosion could blow us all to smithereens or seal us deep within the earth; where I constantly had to breathe particulates and poisonous fumes in; where I had been constantly reminded as to _where my pa_ resided ever since I was fourteen." Wilson's face actually softens, but I don't need his sympathy. "All of this, enforced by your Peacekeepers for who-knows-how-long."

His expression hardens back up before he adds, "After your district gassed us during the Dark Days."

 _What._ "What?"

"You didn't know? You didn't know about the sarin and mustard gas attacks that originated from District Twelve with little provocation? Well we did, considering that District Two got the brunt of the attacks with tens of thousands of civilians dead. I'm surprised they haven't hammered it in your schools to show much of monsters you were. But then again, maybe they didn't want to give you ideas."

 _Did… did we really do that back then?_ "You're lying… or at least you've been lied to."

To my surprise, Wilson just shrugs a bit at that, despite the obvious discomfort the motion give him; I can even see him wince a bit, and I wonder whether he got himself checked up on. "Maybe. Maybe we only got part of the story. And maybe you've been lied to about your district being bombed."

 _How dare he…_ "I SAW THOSE BOMBERS WITH MY OWN EYES! I SAW THEM BURN MY NEIGHBORS AND FRIENDS!"

"AND I SAW _YOU_ BURY _MY_ NEIGHBORS AND FRIENDS!" he roars back. "You know what? I could go on about how easy it would be to clad any aircraft with a new paintjob and make it look like the Capitol was responsible…"

_A hovercraft with the Capitol seal… silver parachutes falling… children maimed by explosions… medics coming in to try and… and…_

The thought gets pushed away. This Peacekeeper is just trying to knock me off balance.

"… but I'm not going to. I'm not going to make excuses for those bombers. Hell… if they're part of Thread's unit, I'm not even surprised; he and his soldiers have always been a bit… zealous."

"Is this supposed to make me feel better?"

"No, sir; I'm merely stating facts."

"Well, here are some facts," I spit back. "Not even my pa was alive for the First Rebellion, so the past's a piss-poor excuse for your Peacekeepers and Careers' actions in the present. And last I checked, there are way more people, including children, in Thirteen than there were in the Nut; so you're just upset that your attack failed and ours succeed—"

"NO I'M NOT!" the Wilson interrupts with a scream. "I would never wish that fate on anyone, not even those in District Thirteen!"

To my surprise, he actually seems distressed, and I don't know how to respond.

"Like I say, as much as I hate it, I can actually understand the logic. Hell, it probably  _was_ the most valid and necessary action, even with the civilians. And if it were just that, I probably would acknowledge it as such," the former Peacekeeper mutters before looking up at me; he doesn't even look angry anymore but simply tired. "But you didn't have to look _so… damn… happy_ in the process. We all saw that broadcast. Do you really get your jollies from killing so many people?"

 _Did I?_ That propo played more than a few times to motivate our troops, but I never bothered to get a good look at it. _But did I really look happy?_ "I don't enjoy killing people—"

"You could have fooled me. The grin on your face… the wide-eyed look of satisfaction… that exclamation about how it was all payback… You looked pretty damn proud."

"I was proud of justice being served and us dealing the final blow to the Capitol. By. Any. Means. Necessary."

"Some justice," Wilson snorts. "I guess that's the rebel brand of justice: killing everybody who so much looks at—"

"Rebels _saved_ your life!" I snap back. "They at least gave you the chance to escape through the station, which was more than what was given us back in Twelve. If it were up to me at the time, you wouldn't have even gotten that!" By the time I realize what I'm saying, it's already too late.

Wilson looks like he'd just been physically struck, and when he finally speaks, his voice comes out in a low growl: "Are you telling me that you were seriously planning on taking out the main exit as well?"

Guess there's no point in keeping that fact in. "Yes."

I don't know why, but at that monosyllabic response, something feels like it unwinds from within.

Though considering how this conversation has been going and the look on Wilson's face right now, I seriously expect for him to lunge forward and attack me. It's clear that that I outmatch him even without his injuries, but I prepare for the possibility regardless. However, all he does is breathe out a ragged sigh while slowly shaking his head with an expression of cold disgust. "Wow… you really _are_ something…" After another pause, he gives me a sharp look. "What did the Mockingjay say?"

 _Might as well tell the truth about that as well…_ "She opposed the whole plane from the very start."

Another snort. "At least one of you was thinking right, sir."

I also feel the need to add, "Your victor, Lyme, also opposed the plan; as did several other officials. Many of those who didn't oppose the plan itself opposed my idea of blowing up the entrance." What am I trying to prove to Wilson? I've been used to people hating and looking down on me all my life, and this guy is just another in line; I don't know why I'm even bothering to explain myself and others. "The rebels aren't like what you think."

"Maybe…" Something flashes behind his eyes. It goes by almost fast enough to miss, but I manage to catch enough to see a near-unfathomable amount of pain and fear there; yet, as unfathomable as it may possibly be, there's something familiar about it. "But enough of them are."

That's when it strikes me that his statement is in the present tense and plural. "This isn't about what happened at the Nut, is it…"

He barks a short bitter laugh. "Oh, it's certainly about what happened there; don't think I'm going to let you off for that, sir. But no, not everything is about you."

"Then what is it about?"

"Why do you suddenly care so much?" he spits.

"Because I recognize that look in your eyes…" It's the same look I saw in Katniss' eyes when Prim first became eligible for the reaping.

Wilson just stares at me for a long time before a chuckle begins to bubble up at the back of his throat and, in due time, progresses to full-blown cackling. This is actually the first time I've ever heard him laugh in full or seen him smile; however, neither reaction is pleasant to behold, and both leave me at a complete loss as to how to react.

As the laughs subside, the former Peacekeeper wipes tears away to say, "Oh man, this is too rich… First you try to kill to me, and actually succeed in killing a lot of people I knew… then you try to convince me about how I deserved it all to happen… and now you're suddenly showing concern? This is the biggest load of…" That's when he makes eye contact with me, and the smile slips away as his eyes widen in disbelief. "Shit… you're serious, aren't you. You're actually fucking serious…"

I really don't know what to say to that. When he puts it that way, it makes me sound completely and utterly deranged. Getting an opinion from a Peacekeeper regardless, am I really this much of a piece of work? Is this what drove Katniss away from me?

Katniss… I haven't seen her since right before I left. She looked so helpless lying there, hooked up to all those machines and layered with new skin covering her scorched body. The whole time her mother alternated between hovering over her and focusing on the other patients; during the process of which no room was given to grieve for Prim. Oh Prim… oh sweet Prim…

I was required to be there to identify what remained of Prim's body; maybe it was because she was possibly facing away at the time, but enough of her face remained eerily unmarred so as to be identifiable. What was she doing there in the first place? It wasn't even a week till she was even able to be old enough to go out. And those bombs…

_No. Beetee himself said that nobody knows where those bombs came from. It's just coincidence mixed with the Capitol's lies. Because that's what the Capitol does: it lies and kills… even its own children._

_To the detriment of its own legitimacy?_

_Who knows what they were thinking. Just shows how they were destined to fall._

_But you can't deny that those bombs looked very much like—_

_No._

With a shake of my head, I manage to banish those thoughts and still my trembling hand. In any case, even if I wasn't already assigned to be here, it's clear that I'm completely useless in the Capitol.

"Wouldn't matter anyways…"

Wilson's quiet statement brings me back to the present. "What?"

The former Peacekeeper is no longer staring at me but out towards the square. There's longer any anger or hatred in him; just abject weariness tinged with melancholy. It's as if our conversation earlier has utterly drained him of energy. "It wouldn't matter," he repeats dully. "Even if I felt like telling you, this is something that came from the top."

 _Came from the top?_ "I know you'll probably get your jollies from holding this over my head, but can you at least explain? You seemed happy to tell me earlier why you thought the Rebellion was wrong. Why not this?"

I don't know if a few minutes pass or almost an hour, but Wilson eventually closes his eyes and heaves a long sigh before turning to fix me with a level gaze. "Do you know who my mother was?"

 _Not sure what this has to do with anything but I'll bite._ I just shake my head in the negative.

Another pause occurs, in which time I can see him internally wrestling as to whether he should give me this information or not. "She was…" Whatever Wilson was about to say doesn't get any further than that as a puzzled expression forms while he looks back out towards the square. "The hell?"

I'm about to tell him to continue, with no small amount of irritation, but I follow his line of sight and understand the source of his puzzlement.

Two aircraft descend down to the square. One I recognize as a run-of-the-mill rebel transport. However, that's not what has our attention. What has our attention is the second aircraft: one with an unfamiliar make and markings that are neither rebel nor Capitol.


	3. Arrivals

The first thing I notice about the unfamiliar vessel is that it's big; as in, several full-sized tanks can likely fit inside with room. But that's not what truly has my attention; what has my attention is the color scheme. Instead of the silver seen on Capitol aircraft or the gray of rebel ones supplied by Thirteen, what clads this vehicle is a black so pure that dimensions are difficult to distinguish. The only exception to this abyssal shroud is at front in the form of a snarling face with blood-tipped fangs, curved tusks, and pair of reptilian eyes.

All in all, it's reminiscent of a monstrous predatory fish maneuvering in preparation to strike at any moment. The effect is unnerving.

"So are we going to go down there or what?" I ask Wilson, who looks at me, then the aircraft, then me again before giving a small shrug and, with considerable effort and the help of a cane, getting up to follow me.

The whole following part also comes across as a chore despite him keeping pace. I haven't noticed until now the way he winces with each step or the beads of perspiration forming on his forehead despite us being at the cusp of winter. Finally I ask, "Are you alright there?"

"As good as I'll ever get, sir." At the same time, it's impossible to miss the implied statement behind those words:  _"Let me handle my own problems or I'll give you one of your own."_ Despite everything, I really can't help but bark out a laugh the familiarity of such a statement. And I'm probably imagining it, but I swear that an imperceptible smirk flashes on Wilson's face.

By the time we reach the square, the aircraft has landed and is lowering a large ramp. Once the ramp hits the ground, a squad of soldiers comes rushing out — besides the patterned uniforms of a different cut, extensive tattoos visible on many of these soldiers further the sense of unnerving unfamiliarity brought by their transport — which causes me to make an instinctive reach for my sidearm, despite my current shoddy aim. Even though the visitors don't do anything beyond standing guard at the base of the ramp, it's not until two other people stroll out that I relax.

One of the individuals is a youthful soldier like the rest, though with a cap instead of a helmet on his head; he's also distinguished by what looks like a relatively fresh and harsh knife wound slashed across his face. However, the wound doesn't put a damper on his mood, considering how animated he is when talking to the person next to him; a person I instantly recognize. Granted Beetee has managed to switch from the Thirteen-issued jumpsuit to an actual suit, and in place of those issued ill-fitting glasses is now a pair of fine wire-frame spectacles.

The moment the two individuals reach the end of the ramp, Beetee walks on ahead as the soldier stops in his tracks. I'm wondering what the latter's doing when he makes a beckoning motion at the vessel. At that moment, a crowd of unarmed and non-uniformed people emerges as well.

At the same time the crowd disembarks, I see another crowd form at the edge of the square. Though there's a small contrast between the two crowds. The one at the square seem to mainly comprise of middle-aged couples and children, with teenagers and older youths present but sparse. From the aircraft, on the other hand, most are… all… military aged.

_Son of a bitch…_

I can feel Wilson staring at me the whole time. However, I don't say or do anything as I see the two groups converge. As I see the sons and daughters of District Two reunite with their mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, and spouses; though I notice that there are just as many of the arrivals who just wander about the crowd aimlessly without anybody to greet them.

_But it's more than could be said for all of the lives they have possibly ruined and ended…_

I don't have time to think about this further as sounds of a debate rise up between Beetee and a District Thirteen soldier; the latter repeatedly states that the new arrivals — who now look at the two anxiously — need to be processed.

"Processing is mandatory for all enemy combatants, surrendered or captured," the soldier insists. "It's the rules."

"That's if they are enemy combatants," Beetee counters with a placid smile. "All I see are workers who got stranded during the war and have just been allowed to return. After all, Two does supply many construction workers throughout this nation."

"What makes you so sure? Some of them look too young for that." Sure enough, several of the arrivals are clearly around Rory's age; some possibly even Vick's.

"They are workers." As the victor repeats that statement, I notice a new sharpness to his smile. That in turn makes me notice that the strange soldiers are watching their District Thirteen counterpart in the same manner that a dog pack views a rabbit.

The Thirteen soldier must notice as well because he takes a few steps back before hailing me: "Commander Hawthorne, what is your decision to this?"

_My decision? Why are they putting it on me?_

And once again I'm reminded of my position as Two's interim administrator and Panem's youngest military commander. _  
_

As I look upon the new arrivals, I'm aware that they recognize me, judging by the scowls given; however, those scowls are also laden with fear. They know that all I have to do is say the word, and they'll be labeled as surrendered enemy combatants and forced to go through weeks of processing; from what I've been told, it's a disgustingly long and tedious process with the person detained in the meanwhile.

_This is your chance; after all they've done, they are at your mercy. And why should you show them any? It's not like they've extended the same to the districts._

Still…

I take a step forward and clear my throat. In the meantime, I try not to see the way young children or parents cling to their now-returned loved-ones.

" _Loved-ones"… Peacekeepers don't love. They kill and terrorize. They—_

_Shut up. I need to think.  
_

"Ladies and gentlemen," I bellow to the crowd, "you all probably know who I am. For those new here, I'm the current acting commander of this district. Thus, it's currently my job to decide what to do with any new arrival of… workers.

"Well, allow me to be the first to officially welcome you back. In any case, I'm sure you must be wondering what you'll be doing, after you get done reuniting with your family. Well, we aren't exactly short on jobs right now, so I'd  _highly_  suggest you go down to the labor office to register. We're happy to get all the help we can get around here.

"However, it goes without saying that if I so much as see any of you wearing a snowflake emblem, you'll be serving as a Solstice decoration for Mars and Bellona's sword," I say while pointing at the large sculpture to the side of the square; there's been a debate as to whether or not to tear the thing down, but so far even the rebels from this district want it to stay standing. "Is that fair?"

"Yes, sir!" comes the collective reply.  _Workers my ass…_  Well, they may not like me, but at least they know to respect the uniform.

"Good. Welcome home."

I can almost feel the collective sigh of relief emanate from the crowd as they stream out of the square. If anything, the soldier from Thirteen actually looks relieved as well while continuing on his way. When I turn around, I notice Wilson staring at me with an unreadable expression. I'm about to tell him that I did this because we didn't need a riot on our hands, but somebody else intercepts me.

"Gale!" Beetee chirps as he clasps me on the shoulder. "How have you been, my boy? How's the family?"

"Busy," I concede. "The family's been settling in quite well though. It may be the air." I'm not kidding. Ma and the rascals actually love it here in Two, despite needing to acclimate to the altitude and ever-present insurgent threats like the Heirs. The setting is a bit different than Twelve, but they love the mountains and great expanse regardless. And unlike me, they can actually go around without people looking at them with spite; I bet it's Posy's charm.

The old victor nods at that. "Good… good…"

"So…" I say, as I take him aside and point to the aircraft, "what's with the… security detail?"  _And where the hell are they from?_

"Oh, you haven't heard?"

"Heard what?"

"They're from back home. Anyways, Central just officially recognized the Rebellion, or whatever we are going to call ourselves, as the legitimate authority in Panem."

"Central?" That really explains nothing to me.

Beetee just waves me off at that. "Oh, I'll fill you in later."

"Okay… and what about the 'workers'?"

"What about them?"

"They're Peacekeepers, aren't they."

He shakes his head at my statement and says, "Can't say they are."

I'm about to mention how blatant this is, when I finally get it. "They  _were_  Peacekeepers, weren't they." When the victor gives me a tight smile, I ask, "So why were they being transported like this?"

"During the Rebellion, Central served as a pit stop for Peacekeeper forces, and when the Capitol finally fell, the community still extended them the courtesy of hospitality. However, some of those Peacekeepers didn't like the neutral stance taken during the war. So, they tried to rise up and take the place over."

"And I take it they failed. So you just let the same people who attacked you go?" I'm incredulous at the idea.

Beetee looks appalled. "Of course not! These people you see are the ones who weren't involved or even tried to stop the conflict; it's why we gave them safe passage here. As for the surviving insurrectionists: since they broke hospitality — not to mention killed and injured several of our own people in the process — we dealt with them… accordingly."

"Wait, what does that mean?" For some reason, there's something unnerving about the statement.

"It means we dealt with them accordingly," he repeats with bared teeth.

Not wanting to imagine the implications about that, I of course decide to move onto another uncomfortable topic. "Beetee?"

"Yes?" The old victor probably knows where I'm going with this judging from his now-guarded expression.

"Have you managed to find anything new about the…"

"Bombs?"

"Yeah."

Beetee lets off a sigh. "No, I haven't. Though do you see that boy over there?" he asks while gesturing to the scar-faced youth who, for some reason, begins intently walking over to Wilson. I'm not sure where the victor is going with this, especially considering how random the tangent seems, but stay silent when he says, "He's the closest thing to a son I have and likely will ever have."

"Huh…" I'm honestly a bit surprised at that news. The old victor never seemed the type to really care about anybody.

I must be quite easy to read, as he says, "There's lots of things you don't know about me. Anyways, I've been there for most of this kid's life. Do you know what he is now?"

"Well it's obvious he's some kind of sol—"

"Guardian," Beetee corrects with a tart tone. "The proper term is Guardian. More specifically, he's a Corpsman."

"Um…"

At my likely-puzzled expression, the victor fixes a level gaze at me as he clarifies: "A medic."

That when I notice that the youth is performing what looks like a simple physical check-up on Wilson; doing things like shining a light in the former Peacekeeper's face and motioning him to raise his arms up. "He's a bit heavily-armed to be a medic."

"That's why he's called a Corpsman; not just a medic. He's as much a warrior as he is a healer," Beetee says with no small amount of pride in his voice. "But that's not the point. The point is that he not only takes the oath to defend his community very seriously; he does the same for his oath as a practitioner of medicine. No matter what banner you live or fight under, he'll view you as a patient if you come under his care."

"Sounds like a tricky balance to strike." I can't comprehend fighting someone one moment and treating them the next.

My statement actually earns a small chuckle. "Oh, it is. That's why, if you're an enemy combatant he has to engage, his personal philosophy is not to leave a patient the first time around. Doesn't change the fact that if he sees someone wounded and isn't otherwise occupied, he'll do everything in his power to treat them." And in that moment, the old victor actually seems to age by several decades and closes his eyes as if in pain. "It's why I had to tell him about the bombs."

A block of ice being thrown at my face would have made less of an impact than Beetee's words. I was so engrossed in the tangent he made that I actually forgot what the original topic was about. "You did  _what_?"

He's unruffled and simply gives me an even look. "Don't be so indignant. You were freely telling Katniss about our plans, even though she technically never even had the clearance."

 _I… dammit he has a point there._  So the only thing I can say to that is, "Does anybody else know."

Beetee simply gives a pointed nod in the direction of the rebel hovercraft — I now notice that Commander Paylor has disembarked and is talking with some of her aides while giving occasional glances in our direction — before saying, "I didn't tell them about your involvement, if that's what you're worried about."

If that's supposed to assuage me, it doesn't work. "But why did you say anything in the first place?"

"Because I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if I didn't," he murmurs. "Because I know that, had he been in the City Circle, he would have rushed into that mess without hesitation."

"But… you said it yourself that you don't know."

The look he gives me is of sheer incredulity before he shakes his head. "I said that we can't be exactly sure; not without evidence as to who ordered those bombs to be dropped. It's why I have Paylor looking into this. But Gale, every single stage of those bombs—"

"It could just be coincidence…"

Beetee huffs in exasperation. "Just so that Snow would destroy his own human shields, undermining his power base in the process?"

The logic presented is sound. But admitting to this would be admitting that my action led to…

_No, Snow just overplayed his hand. Or maybe he hasn't and is just trying to drive us apart like the spiteful snake he is._

"Even if it wasn't our bombs that were dropped, there's still the fact that I helped made a bomb used to specifically target medics. I may have not been the one to come up with the idea, but I was the one to adapt it. Just so I could satisfy my own curiosity…"

"How did he take it?" I don't why, but I find this to be the most important question of all.

"He's forgiven me, if that's what you're asking; he's decent like that. At the time though… It was just the day after I came back, and we were having lunch and catching up when I told him. Can you guess what he did that moment?"

I shake my head.

"He got up and, without a word, walked off; didn't speak to me for over a week. But that's not what sticks with me. What sticks… what I will never be able to forget… is that look of sadness and disappointment on his face; when his expression changed from happiness to confusion to…  _that_. Honestly… I would have probably preferred some kind of tirade." There's that aged and ragged look again… "It's easy to take for granted the pedestal someone puts you on until it gets shaken."

I really don't know what to say, and the only response I can give is, "We can't know for sure…"

Beetee looks at me for what seems like an eternity before slowly shaking his head. "You keep telling yourself that…"

I'd like to give a rebuttal to that, but even if I could figure out a response, something has gotten both our attentions; because at this point the youth is becoming increasingly agitated as he looks over and asks questions at Wilson, who in turn seems to be more and more uncomfortable by the moment.

Finally I decided to walk over to the two. "Something the matter?"

The Corpsman, upon taking a glance at this new conversational participant, issues what has to be a salute; it may be unfamiliar, but at a certain point, a salute is a salute. After I return it, he, with an accent that actually wouldn't be out of place back in Twelve, gets right to the point: "Sir, why hasn't Marcus here — is it okay if I call you Marcus, Marcus — received basic medical attention?"

"Like I said," Wilson grits out, "I'm fi—"

"No you ain't. You're practically falling apart is what you are. In the state you're in, you risk getting sick any moment now."

"What do you mean he's not getting basic medical attention?" I ask. This is news to me.

The Corpsman, whose tag reads as "Stone", seems to sense that I'm not in the know and immediately flags over the nearest soldier to ask him to get whichever medic's in charge.

When the head medic arrives, Stone reiterates his question. To which the Thirteen medic curtly responds, "This man  _has_  received basic care."

That answer doesn't seem to satisfy Stone, as he tells Wilson, "Marcus, please take off your jacket and show them."

At this point, the former Peacekeeper doesn't just look uncomfortable; he actually seems downright fearful and stares at me, of all people, in a pleading manner. That's when I suddenly realize I've never seen him without a jacket on, even indoors; that realization makes me say, "Wilson, this guy sounds like he knows what he's doing. You don't have to be ashamed."

"It's not shame," Wilson mutters, but after a defeated sigh, he unbuttons the jacket and gingerly slips it off. The moment he turns around and faces his back to us, I feel sick to my stomach.

Because even with him wearing a tunic, I can tell that the injuries he obtained from the Nut still haven't healed properly even after three months. I can tell because the fabric is stuck to his back and stained with blood and… whatever else is seeping from there. And to think that he has been walking around in this state…

"This…" Stone growls, "ain't 'basic medical care'."

"It is for a person of his standing," the medic retorts.

"And what standing is that?"

"As he refused to recant his service to the Peacekeepers, this man is still technically a prisoner of war. However, being that he's assisting us, we have ensured that he has been treated better than the other servants to the old regime. Something he's grateful for." At which, he gives a pointed look at the former Peacekeeper who returns it with a small nod.

I'm completely at a loss. During the war I've looked forward to fighting back at Peacekeepers for all they have done to us. But something… something about this rubs me the wrong way.

It seems to be the same for Stone considering the way he clenches and unclenches his fists. "And… how… how are the other prisoners treated?"

"I don't have to answer any more questions from a child like you."

"No, you don't," I acknowledge. "But considering that I'm acting Commander of District Two, I'd say that you're pretty damn obligated to answer  _my_  questions."

The medic immediately blanches. "Sir, I—"

"Scratch that: I'd like you to  _show_  me. Now."


	4. Camp Victory

The ride to the camp is as tense as it is uneventful. I don't know what's waiting for us at our destination, but I have a bad feeling that it's likely not going to be pleasant.

To make things go on the smoother side, and because she wants to see things for herself as well, Paylor offered us her hovercraft to take us there due to the distance. Despite my orders, the medic from Thirteen, who we're insisting on coming with us, was hesitant in giving me the location of the POW camp and claimed that orders came from above me; however another soldier — the same one who deferred to me to deal with the new arrivals earlier — seemed actually happy and relieved to cooperate in giving us the coordinates, which are a little over a hundred miles to the southwest of the main city.

So in meantime, I sit to alternate between watching mountains give way to rolling expanse and observing the operation occurring right next to me.

Wilson lies on his belly and stripped all the way down to his underwear to allow Stone to carefully work on his back and nape of the neck. I don't know what kind of care the former Peacekeeper was given, but the Corpsman's right: it doesn't even come close to the bare minimum required. In some cases, Stone actually has to brush and rinse away old long-dead skin so that the raw tissue underneath can grow, and he has to rinse and wash the back over with disinfectant… several times, which leads to gritted outbursts of pain.

I try not to think about how much this reminds me of all the times I've had to help carry a friend from the mines over to the Everdeens; I try, but I just can't help it. In spite of myself, and in spite of our previous interactions, I offer a hand for Wilson to cling onto, which he takes albeit with some initial hesitation.

After applying several injections, an even coating of some salve, and a thin medical fabric to cover the injured skin, Stone carefully turns the former Peacekeeper to the side and helps him up to a sitting position to make sure he's actually able to support himself. After that, the Corpsman focuses his attention on other possible wounds sustained — including what looks like a partially-healed bullet wound through the calf — and injuries that may need care, before Wilson is finally allowed to dress himself. For obvious reasons, the soiled tunic is discarded and he's only able to wear the jacket after Stone sprays some disinfectant over it and makes sure the interior fabric won't cause any issues.

One thing's a constant throughout the procedure: Stone's consistent chattering with his patient; I mean, he reaches Delly-levels of social energy. Usually, unless it has to deal with the operation itself, the topics at hand consist of the most inane and sometimes surreal rambling. Also, usually, they are one-sided with Wilson staring at me with a look that plainly asks,  _"Does this guy ever shut up?"_  

I just respond to that with a shrug.

In any case, it's not long after that we reach what they call "Camp Victory".

Midway through the campaign to take District Two, it was decided that, there was little need to have POW camps scattered throughout the land since the majority of the nation was now solidly in rebel hands. So a location was chosen towards the southern edge of this district to serve as a spot where the rebels could consolidate all of the prisoners. So Camp Victory was born.

As the hovercraft descends, I'm able to see the camp: a fenced square superimposed over an abandoned village on the banks of a river. A pair of channels is dug from the river and crosses the fence at the upstream and downstream corners to connect to the interior perimeter ditch; it's likely the only source of water considering that the surrounding landscape is flat scrubland with not a single tree in sight except along the river. Each side of the square has to be around a mile long with guard towers evenly spaced every hundred meters; this spacing doesn't factor in the main gate, which faces the river. On the outside of the gate is the landing pad, rail depot, and what's likely the encampment for the guards.

But once we disembark the hovercraft and get exposed to the cool dry air— granted, a bit warmer than back in the main city —there's one thing that supplants all other observations: the stench. Even though we aren't even downwind of the camp, a powerful mixture of decay and human waste assaults my senses in a thick overbearing cloud and just grows stronger the closer we get. While I have to resist the urge to surrender to my gag reflexes, Paylor doesn't look the least bit affected in terms of nausea; instead, she's positively livid. Considering what this scent is starting to remind me of, I think I have a good idea why she's so upset.

When we reach the gate, the warden is present to greet us. While deferential to me and Paylor, it's obvious that he doesn't want any of us to be here. He doesn't even bother being cordial with Wilson or Stone, complete with accusations of the former being ungrateful and the latter some unfamiliar interloper; the Corpsman is unruffled by the accusation and lightly replies that a medical hovercraft is still on its way. Ultimately — probably because he doesn't want to risk insubordination with key Rebellion figures — the warden allows the two through; though he tells them that they are not afforded the same protection from prisoners as we are.

In the process of our entrance we're all required, "for the sake of security", to relinquish our weapons, from firearms and grenades all the way down to combat knives and swords; Stone's slightly forward-curving blade looks less like an actual sword — such as my and Paylor's Thirteen-issued command sabers; I still don't know how to effectively wield the damn thing — and more like an ornate and lengthened machete. Wilson's cane is almost confiscated, but I manage to persuade the guards to allow it. In turn, it's suggested that we stay near the perimeter so as to remain under the protection of the watchtowers. With that out of the way, our group finally makes its entrance.

Between Wilson's condition and the statement that it's supposed to be good, the awful odor filling our nostrils, and the disturbingly familiar hum of the electric fence we pass under… there's an implication that I'm in for an awful spectacle, and I steel myself accordingly. So with this expectation in place, I'm at least somewhat prepared for the following scene… right?

Wrong.

Right past the gate, we have to cross a fifty-yard-long bridge that passes over a marshy moat-like expanse of mud, plants, and water. After those fifty yards is technically where the dry land starts and the camp proper is, with the interior border being marked by a series of posts.

It's also where I see the first bodies.

The whole bank is evenly lined with corpses. Some look like they fell yesterday; others are bloated in an advanced state of decay; all of them have bullet wounds in them. While some individuals were obviously risking an escape, when I see the small pails or cups next to the lifeless hands of many of the bodies, it vaguely occurs to me that the reason they crossed the boundary was just to go for water; others are even frozen in the act of grabbing an ankle or wrist of another person, as if they were attempting to retrieve them.

As we pass a cart stacked to the brim with individuals likely awaiting burial, I bear witness to the fact that things don't get any better in the camp proper. It's obvious that the buildings of the village, which is now in shambles, aren't enough to hold all the occupants; so a sea of make-shift tents is what greets us. In the spaces between the tents, human waste covers the ground to the point that after those first couple minutes I don't even bother watching where I step; I still watch myself so as not to step on the seemingly just-as-plentiful corpses scattered around… or the bold vermin which feed on both waste and human.

If the smells weren't enough for my senses to take in, there's the field of speakers blaring messages either with words trumpeting the good of the Rebellion or shaming those who supported the Capitol. No matter where you stand, the volume is just the same. And just in case that's not redundant enough coverage, propos are projected all along the high outer fence.

And just when I feel that I've acclimated myself to the horrors surrounding us, I bear witness to the living residents of the camp; except that "living" is too generous of a term. Sure, hearts beat and electrical impulses flash between nerves… but to call them alive fits in only the strictest academic sense. Instead, what take the place of living people are beings reduced to walking skeletons with eyes shadowed in skull-like visages and bellies distended by malnutrition; it's a wonder that they are even able to move. Once-white uniforms, now soiled with various form of filth, hang as loosely on their frames as their mottled skin. This just factors in the ones with actual clothes to wear; not those who shamble in cobbled-together rags or nothing at all, despite the increasing threat of winter. Not to mention the full tableau of various possible ailments: bleeding mouths of scurvy, dehydration-induced shakes from diarrhea, the few who aren't fully skeletal but rather swollen with dropsy… That's just a snippet of what I come across.

There had been bad times in the Seam, especially during the winter, where the dead delay their status for a few months only to finally end on a doorstep. I'm more than a bit familiar with starvation and hardship; it's what motivated me. This though… this makes the Seam in the harshest of winters look downright cozy several times over.

Wanting to distract myself, I take stock of my fellow travel companions: Beetee and Paylor both looking much older than they are, Stone clenching his jaw, and Wilson… just being resigned.

After a while the prisoners finally take note of their new visitors, and recognition flashes behind dull eyes when they see me. However, while I'm expecting hatred, I only see relief as they begin to congregate. One sickly mass crowding towards me.

The spectacle becomes too much to bear, and I can't help but flee from these wretched beings. Feeling that I put enough distance, I lean up against a wall to breathe, "This… this is wrong… this is so wrong…"

I can hear Wilson approach me before I look up to see him, and I expect for the former Peacekeeper to be ready to tear me a new one with the same hostile fire he had earlier today. Instead, when I make eye-contact… I just see sorrow and pity.

"Just because these people have been dying of disease and starvation, instead of being suffocated and crushed, now you object to how they are treated, sir?" he asks with a quiet voice full of rebuke yet equally devoid of anger. Maybe he's just too tired to be pissed-off anymore.

"It's…" I remember this conversation. Katniss telling me how wrong I am… me mocking everybody for being hung up on the fact that those in the Nut would have their deaths prolonged as opposed to being blown up in a coal mine…

I try to find the voice to say that what I did had to be done; that this is not the same. But for some reason, I can't.

Did I really want to kill others so badly?

As if to answer me, the projectors begin playing the footage of the Nut's destruction. And that's when I see myself… that's when I see what Wilson was talking about when he accused me of being happy. Because I really do look happy— no… I look  _downright gleeful_ with a crazed grin that stretches all the way up to wide eyes. I'm practically hopping up-and-down and whooping with joy as those avalanches come to smother the entrances… as they come to suffocate thousands.

"Shut it off…" I mutter. The footage keeps going; dozens of Gales leering down at me… eager to pass judgment… eager to reap destruction… "Shut it off! Shut these damn broadcasts off! ALL OF THEM; THAT'S AN ORDER!" I scream, stalking back to the bridge in the process.

Somebody must have received the message because both the projectors and speakers are turned off, and a silence falls that's so palpable it almost feels as if a thick woolen blanket covers the whole area. I have been here less than an hour, yet the shift is noticeable as I walk back to the group; even more for the prisoners, who appear absolutely lost and bewildered now that their hearing is no longer continuously assaulted by those damn propos. Wilson just changes back to that unreadable expression again.

Barely a few minutes pass when Stone briskly strides ahead to address the group gathering before us. In an upbeat and chirpy tone completely at odds with the environment and his prior demeanor, the Corpsman doesn't waste any time in introducing himself and telling his audience that they are now under his care.

Despite the physical condition that they're in, many of the prisoners actually laugh at this, and one speaks up to quip, "This is rich. Some hillbilly bastard child is going to be the one looking after us?" More laughter.

Any reasonable individual would take offense at that comment; hell, I've punched fellow rebels in the face for calling me a hillbilly. To my surprise however, Stone doesn't lose his cheer. In fact, he actually laughs with them. "Yep. Though I do need to clarify that I'm actually a bastard from a bastard from a bastard from a maybe-maybe-not-bastard; I hail from a long not-so-proud line of courtesans. Fact."

The Corpsman's frank, and frankly insane, statement succeeds in catching some of the previously-heckling prisoners off-guard and rendering them silent. Still another yells, "You mean whores!"

"You sound just like my sis," he shoots back with rolled eyes before piping in falsetto, "'When they're dead, they're all whores. No exception.'"

This time, most of the crowd now partakes in the raucous display of mirth, during which I ask a dumbfounded Wilson, "How could they tell he's illegitimate."

"His name." As that really doesn't explain much, the former Peacekeeper immediately clarifies: "'Stone' is the surname given to someone born a bastard."

"Well, what if the family name is 'Stone'?"

He shakes his head. "Unlikely, sir. Most bastards try to marry a person of legitimate birth; no matter the gender, the legitimate name will always take precedence. Sometimes two bastards may marry, but that's really rare."

The whole thing sounds convoluted. "Huh… but still, this sounds like just a practice of your district. It's a pretty far leap to make considering that the Corpsman doesn't even sound like he's from around here."

"Not really considering that community recruits from our population. Even I don't know what they do to twist our people into… well…"

"'Tattooed hillbilly freaks'?" Beetee helpfully adds as he enters our conversation.

For all his loaded opinions earlier today, Wilson immediately tries to backtrack now: "I didn't mean to offend, sir. And don't get me wrong; your doc has done a great job," he notes while gesturing to the bandages. "It's just that… from those who stopped by, I've heard many… uh… stories…"

The victor just chortles at the former Peacekeeper's befuddlement. "It's alright, kid; if we're being honest, they've taken to calling  _themselves_  THFs." He follows that up by giving a pointed look towards the Corpsman and musing, "I wonder how these Peacekeepers would react if they found out Luce's line of illegitimacy started out with Philippos Singh."

"What?" Wilson all but yelps.

"Uh… who?" I ask.

"The late Commander Singh was the third Generalissimus of this nation," Wilson explains with no small measure of awe, "second Head Peacekeeper of District Two, and hero of the Dark Days."

"Don't forget a bit of a cad…" Beetee adds.

The former Peacekeeper seems ready to object but then simply bows his head with a sigh. "That too…" Though he follows that by looking earnestly at the victor to say, "But if Doc Stone really is descended from the Lion of Founders' Pass, then it doesn't matter if he's a bastard so many generations removed; most of these soldiers would immediately defer to him with the respect his bloodline deserves."

"He would… if that's his intention. But it's not," Beetee says before pointing to the crowd again. "Why do you think he's making all these cracks at his own expense? Why was he making banter with you on the ride here?"

I watch Stone as he begins looking over the first of the prisoners, many of whom now engage him in conversation.

"It's to put them at ease…" I murmur. "Or at least take their minds off things."

"I was going to say that it's because that's just the kind of person he is," Beetee states then shrugs, "but sure; that too."

As I watch these people laugh and joke, I try to match what I see before me with the monsters that I have fought all through this past war and suffered under all my life; with the ones who bombed thousands, beat my neighbors indiscriminately, and even killed their own whenever one would speak out. Yet I can't; for some reason I can't see these people as anything more than just that: people. Still… "But why should he? You said it yourself that his community was attacked by Peacekeepers; that he likely lost comrades. And from the looks of that scar, he even personally fought against them. I'm not arguing against treating these prisoners, but why should he be all chummy?"

The old victor addresses me with the patience of a schoolteacher: "Yes, he fought and was attacked by Peacekeepers. But like I said before, anybody who personally engaged him was dispatched, and the remainder were dealt with. These prisoners are not them; there is no reason for him to hold a grudge."

Something in me suspects that Beetee is not just talking about Stone. However, I don't have time to mull that over; because I hear something that makes my blood run cold with horrified realization:

"Mark-Mark!"

_They have children here…_


	5. Management Issues

_They have children here… why… why the fuck are children here?_

It's even worse when I see the source of the exclamation. The boy barely looks three, yet he carries himself with energetic determination while tottering in our direction. But that's not what makes my stomach drop out; at least not that alone. What has me frozen in horror is his condition.

He's no living skeleton like most prisoners, yet that doesn't stop me from noticing his sunken cheeks and prominent joints. Nor does it stop me from noticing the tattered rags and lack of footwear as he runs through the filth. There are Seam children during winter that I remember looking more prosperous than this.

Granted, that doesn't hinder the giddy boy as he slams into Wilson, who in turn doesn't hesitate in scooping the child off the ground. Sure the eyes are brown instead of gray, but there's no mistaking their relation. As he murmurs softly while holding the squirming boy close, it doesn't escape me that this is the first time I've seen the former Peacekeeper truly smile.

Soon, he turns to me with shining eyes to state, "Sir, this is my little brother Seleucus."

That's when the boy finally notices me and, with a cry, buries his face into his brother's shoulder.

Wilson just frowns. "What's the matter, Sel?"

Seleucus doesn't bother looking up to mumble, "It the Bad Man…"

To be honest, that statement hurts… a lot. I mean, I've been called plenty of things, often on the creative and profane side. But despite their simplicity, the words uttered from this portrait of youthful innocence hit harder than any vitriolic curse an enemy can give. I try not to let it show, but my eyes sting.

What Wilson says in response though surprises the hell out of me: "He's not bad; just angry… and a bit stupid."

"But he hurt Mark-Mark…" Now I realize that he could have easily seen footage of the square… of me grinning as I bury the Nut… all of that… every single day… over and over and over…

"I never said his choices weren't bad. Angry and stupid is a terrible mixture; remember that." I don't miss that he stares at me while speaking. "Do you think you can say hello?"

When the kid turns to me, he scowls and puffs up to squeak, "You no hurt Big Brother again!"

Despite this whole miserable situation, his reaction makes me smile. "Don't worry, I won't."

"Promise?"  _Just like Posy…_

"I promise."

It's like a switch is flipped as a wide grin appears on his face; you never would have thought he was so critical earlier. "Okay! I Se-um… Se-loo… uh…" The grin morphs into a small frown as he tries to concentrate. "Se… Sel…"

As entertaining as it is to watch a toddler attempting to pronounce something so ridiculous, his brother cuts in to say, "Why don't we stay with 'Sel'?"

"Okay… Hi, I Sel!"

"Well, hello Sel," I respond. "You can call me Gale."

"Hi, Mister Gay."

 _You have got to be kidding…_  A coughing and choking noise makes me turn to see Stone attempting, and failing, to stifle what suspiciously sounds like a laugh; the prisoners are far less restrained. Even when I look at my other companions, Paylor and Beetee both cover their mouths and look elsewhere, while the elder Wilson's lips twitch. Sel just looks confused.

So I try to repair things a bit: "Um, heh, do you think you can say 'Gale' one more time?"

"Mister Gell?"

"… Yeah, that works," I mutter with a shake of my head, though I can't help but smile. "It's good to meet you."

Stone, who has just been telling the prisoners something — to which they nod in assent — walks briskly back in our direction to ask Wilson if he can take a look at the child.

As Sel is set back down on the ground, he just stares up with an expression of curiosity while pointing at the Corpsman's cap. "Hat."

Stone just grins back to chirp, "Thanks; you like it?" Sel gives an eager nod in response. "Tell, you what: let me check you for lice. If I don't see any, and if you're good for this check-up, you get to wear this for the rest of the day."

"Really?" With the boy's squeal of delight, you'd think that he's been offered freedom out of this hellhole.

"Yeah, really. Now hold still please."

As Stone begins looking over Sel, I walk over to Wilson and quietly ask him something that bugs me:

"Why did you tell him that?" When he gives me a puzzled look, I clarify: "Why did you bother correcting Sel when he said that I was bad?" Considering how angry the former Peacekeeper's been with me, I would have expected him to agree or at least not deny the statement.

A long sigh is released. "I'd prefer that he not grow up thinking that the world's filled with nothing but evil."

"… Do you think I'm evil?" I don't know why I feel the answer to this is so important to find out, but I just do.

Wilson goes unreadable again and looks at me for an indeterminate period before saying, "Honestly, sir? Yeah, I thought you were pretty fucking evil, and I  _hated_  you. Hell, I hated you earlier today. You probably wouldn't like…"

Noticing how he trails off, I motion for him to continue. "Go on…"

The former Peacekeeper actually looks a bit sheepish when he mumbles, "Well, I've imagined some creative deaths for you."

"Oh…" Well… he did say he was going to be honest.

"Now, however…" he murmurs with a shake of the head, "I don't know what to think. I wouldn't say you are evil, if that's what you're asking. I still hate what you've done, no matter what reasons you have. But at the same time… seeing you now… I dunno; I don't  _think_  I hate you anymore."

 _That's real convincing…_  I still breathe out a sigh. "Fair enough…" There's still another big question at hand: "Marc— ah dammit, I mean Wilson…"

A small smirk appears on his face. "It's alright, sir; you can call me Marcus. Anyways, what were you going to say?"

"Oh… yes… Um, why is your broth—"

"There you are, Sel! How many times have I told you not to wander off?"

When I turn towards the voice, I see a girl — like Marcus, she's probably around my age — hurrying toward us. A couple men follow closely behind and wear improvised breastplates of sheet metal. Like Sel and unlike the other prisoners, these new faces aren't skeletons, but that doesn't mean they're doing well either. Plus, another thing I notice about the girl — besides her copper hair pulled back in a ponytail — is that her right arm terminates at the elbow and is partially covered with a ragged shawl.

In any event, her presence causes Marcus to grin and shout out, "Merc!"

At the former Peacekeeper's call, the girl expression registers relief with a smile of her own as she rushes over to embrace him.

After they break from their hug, Marcus introduces us: "Sir, Mercury Anders; she's practically a sister and has been helping take care of the kids."  _Kids? As in plural?_  "Merc, you probably recognize—"

"— Gale Hawthorne…" she finishes with a nod in my direction. To my surprise, while she exhibits understandable wariness, there's not the same level of hostility everyone else gives. Also, there's something about her last name and physical traits that feel familiar, but I can't pinpoint it. "He's not exactly hard to recognize. Bit surprised you're even introducing us, considering your rants when you were here."

"Marcus was here?" I ask a bit sharper than intended. "No, scratch that— Why are there children here? And where are your parents?"

I don't know why, but a pained look crosses Beetee's face the same time Mercury gives Marcus a critical glare. "You didn't tell him."

"I… I was a bit preoccupied."

"You were so preoccupied hating him that you couldn't even mention what happened?"

"Tell me what?" I insist.

"That they are the children of victors: Olympia Wilson and Cinnabar Anders," Beetee interjects. "I don't know what happened, but last I checked they, along with Olivine Price, were neutral and disappeared during the war. Presumably killed."

"I guess the Capitol didn't like them not picking a side."

The victor looks coolly at me. "Who said it was the Capitol?"

"WHAT?" I knew Enobaria's the sole surviving victor from Two, but I thought the rest died in the fighting itself or were killed by the Capitol.  _Why didn't I hear about this?_

"They weren't your average rebels," Mercury states. "Lyme's soldiers had boundaries. Yeah they fought against those who sided with the Capitol, but they still respected victors. But after the Aedes Bellonae fell and Lyme—"

"Are you trying to get everyone killed?" Marcus hisses. "You remember what they said would happen if we talked."

"As opposed to wasting away?" she shoots back. "Do you know Jasper got pneumonia last week? We're valuable enough for her to get medicine, but she's still weak right now."

Fear renders the former Peacekeeper pale. "I…"

"We dodged a bullet, but that won't always be the case; especially since this weather's going to get worse. Not to mention the other families." Then it finally hits me why there are kids; why Marcus mentioned this being out of my control: these civilians are hostages.  _What the hell?_  "So, it may be a long shot, but I'm going to at least try."

As Marcus goes silent, Paylor asks, "So what happened?"

"A platoon came to the Victors' Village to 'persuade' my dad, his mom, and Olivine to join the Rebellion. For some reason, they didn't do the same for Enobaria. When we refused, they attacked." Mercury pauses to take a deep breath before continuing on. "We managed to take more than a few of theirs out, but they overwhelmed our defenses. My parents were killed; Marcus' parents were killed; Olivine and her family were killed. And as you can see, I get to learn a new dominant hand. Fortunately, Sel and my sisters were holed up in one of our houses and unscathed. They were used to keep Eno from retaliating.

"And now we're here. We may have a building and just enough food, but it's not enough, especially for young kids. And while those from the Watch," she explains pointing to the armored men in the process, "are doing their best to keep us safe, there's still the risk that the Corsairs will attack us."

"Corsairs?"

It's Marcus' turn to explain: "You know how rebels keep going on about Peacekeepers being nothing but thugs? Well… aside from Thread's crazies, these ruffians are probably where you got that impression. Except… except…"

Mercury takes the initiative in light of Marcus' hesitation: "Except this time they're now backed by the guards. They get new clothes and a greater proportion of rations, all so that they can act upon the warden's will if he so desires. In turn, he turns a blind eye to them stealing and terrorizing the other inmates, who are usually too weak to resist; if they do resist, they get beaten to death. Not to mention what happens to… desirable prisoners…"

"Have they…" Marcus fearfully begins to ask.

"Like I said, the Watch keeps the Corsairs away from the civilians," the girl states before turning to me and explaining with a nod towards her escorts, "Guys like them are inmates who've taken the initiative. Several have been killed, but they're still helping out anyways."

"And how… how many civilians are here?" I ask while trying to keep my voice even.

"Eight families, plus mine and Marcus'. Most of them children."

As that information sinks in, Paylor mutters, "I guess not turning my prisoners over to Thirteen was a good idea after all."

The implication of her statement pulls me up short. "Wait, there are other camps? This is supposed to be the only one."

"This is the only _official_  one," the commander clarifies. "That doesn't mean there aren't still some locally-run."

"But—"

"Yes, people and resources need to be set aside to oversee the prisoners, but there's a trade-off in the form of labor. When Thirteen demanded my prisoners, I asked if Command was going to send people over to fix my district; they never brought the subject up again."

"And there aren't any issues?"

"Of course there's a few issues and incidents. But do you think I'd be here if things weren't under control in Eight?" 

Paylor's point hangs in the air as I take stock of the wretched surrounding environment: the filth, the stench, the ramshackle shanties that are supposed to pass as places to sleep, the inhabitants without hope, the creatures — come to think of it, there are more birds here than before — ready to feast on the bodies…

This isn't what the Rebellion was supposed to be; I fought to get rid of this.

_Yet just a few months ago, you probably wouldn't have hesitated at condemning these people to this fate — well… so long as you don't have to see the result._

_Just like the N—_

I shake my head; I can't afford to think about that right now.

In the meantime, Stone looks up from Sel to tell Mercury, "If you don't mind guiding me there, I'll need to see those kids; they take priority."

"Yeah… that's not going to happen," a new voice cuts in.

The first thing I notice about the new group of individuals — I count nine at front — is that unlike everybody else here, they are actually clad in whole and relatively clean uniforms with real Peacekeeper breastplates; Thirteen's clenched fist is painted over the Capitol seal. The second thing is how healthy and well-fed they are. I mean they'd still look unhealthy compared to any pre-war Peacekeeper, but they're clearly better-off than everyone else here; that even applies to the larger mob behind those nine. The last thing of note is that they are armed — improvised weapons such as clubs and shivs — and don't exactly look friendly.

Sel instantly recognizes the threat because he makes no sound when scurrying over to Mercury, who effortlessly scoops him up in her arm and moves to the back of our group.

The one who spoke earlier — a large brute wielding a table leg studded with pieces of glass — walks forward with a sneer. "Well, look who it is: Wilson the Weak made some friends. Saving Mockingjays and collaborating with the Butcher… You sure you're a Peacekeeper?"

To his credit, Marcus isn't cowed but rather puffs out of his chest to counter, "Says one of the warden's attack dogs. So, Commodus, how many extra rations does he give to go down on him?"

Granted, back-talking a thug is ill-advised when you're at a physical disadvantage; I would know. And indeed, Marcus' statement hits a nerve as Commodus begins to advance forward. I respond by stepping between them.

While a thug, the Corsair recognizes a commander when he sees one and likely knows the consequence of hurting me. However, that doesn't stop him from shifting his attention on Stone.

Now the Corpsman's on the tall side — probably around my height — and looks more than fit. But the Corsair bearing down on him still has several more inches and way more bulk.

"Children take priority," Stone repeats with no hint of being intimidated. "I've already informed your fellow inmates, and they agree. I'll get to you in du—"

"I don't care what those weaklings said," Commodus growls back. "You're not going anywhere, hillbilly, except out."

So this is why the warden did not give Marcus and Stone the same level of protection as the rest of us… Beetee, Paylor, and I may be safe from harm, but the same can't be said for the other two, which would force us to retreat. The fucking nerve of it…

"Ain't gonna leave," Stone replies calmly while maintaining eye contact with the now-chuckling Commodus.

"Huh… you're gutsy; I'll give you that. How old are you: Sixteen? Seventeen?"

"Turn twenty-one in a couple weeks." Somehow, Stone also maintains a cordial tone. "But thanks for asking."

"Tell you what: give us that bag of goodies, and we'll allow you free reign."

To my surprise, the Corpsman swings the pack off his shoulders and holds it up. "You mean this?" With the affirmation from the Corsair, he gives a look of pondering the decision… before putting the pack in my hands. "Yeah… no. Ain't happening."

Ugliness flashes across Commodus' face, but he grins again and focuses on Mercury to pucker his lips at her. "Or… we can finally get that evening out. That'll also allow access… or at the very least, it will keep you from a beating."

At that offer, Mercury and Sel's guards tense up, and I have to hold out an arm to restrain Marcus.

"That ain't happening either." Stone's statement comes out even more quiet, and this time I don't miss the edge to it. I also notice that, while the Corpsman's stance seems relaxed, he's slowly rolling his shoulders and rocking back-and-forth on the balls of his feet while twitching his fingers for some reason.

"Or what? You gonna stop us?"

"Yep," he affirms with all the drama of a shipping itinerary. "But you have the option of turning around and leaving us in peace."

"How generous…" At that, Commodus' hand swipes up and knocks Stone's cap off his head, revealing… well…

"Colors!" pipes up Sel, who has decided at this moment to look up from hiding.

 _Yes, colors…_  Stone's hair may be cut in a military manner, but he still puts the Capitol to shame in the realm of extreme color and saturation. I'm not even sure those shades of bright blue or pink exist naturally.

Even though the Corsairs now laugh uproariously, the Corpsman ignores them to turn his head towards Marcus, who managed to catch the cap. "Thanks for the save; please pass that over to your little brother."

If Sel was excited before, he looks absolutely ecstatic now and yells out a thank-you to the Corpsman.

"A promise is a promise, and when this is over, I'll let you see something cool," Stone says while grinning at the boy, who grins back before returning to hide his face in Mercury's shoulder. However, when the Corpsman focuses his attention back on the Corsairs, I notice a look in his eyes that's… unsettling. "You really sure you want to do this? Reckon most of you have at least cholera or amoebic dysentery, along with scurvy and who-knows-what-else. And while you probably ate more than everyone else, it ain't likely you're in shape. So I'm giving one more chance to turn around and leave this all behind."

Commodus gives another unpleasant guffaw. "Look at this fancy hillbilly bastard with his fancy doctor speech. Well, I'm giving you one more chance to mind your own business, boy."

In response, Stone releases a small regretful sigh and makes a strange gesture of crossing himself. "Sorry Marcus," he mutters. "Sir, permission to engage?"

I don't know what the Corpsman's going to do, but he doesn't have to ask twice. "Gran—FUCK!"

I can't help but yelp and duck as the surrounding birds take to the air in a chorus of screams. That split-second of distraction is all Stone needs.

One moment, the Corpsman is standing in what seemed to be a resting position; the next, he lunges backwards, yanks Marcus' cane right out of his grasp, and reverses the motion to slam the end of the cane into Commodus' throat with an audible crunch. As Marcus loses his balance, I'm barely able to stabilize my wits in time to lend out an arm and stabilize him as we both stare in shock at the unfolding scene.

In a fluid motion, Stone switches to a two-handed grip and proceeds to swing the cane into the side of Commodus' knee, then the side of the head, and finally the back of the head — the final swing is enough to splinter the cane in half — as the Corsair goes down. With a loud crack that accompanies the slam of a booted heel to the base of the neck, Commodus' life is ended right in front of the eight other stunned ringleaders and their crew.

Thing is, just standing around all stunned isn't something useful in a fight, and Stone takes advantage of that moment to center himself with couple deep breaths as he fully separates the two halves of the cane while coiling into a ready stance. In response, the Corsairs raise their weapons in preparation to attack.

Except that in returning their focus on the Corpsman, they forgot about the birds.

I don't know how, but suddenly the flock — it dimly occurs to me that the human-like screams emanate from jabberjays — converges on the remaining enemies, pecking and clawing at exposed skin and forcing their targets to instinctively put their arms up. It's just the opening Stone needs to sprint forward.

The whole thing almost goes in a blur but here's what I'm able to glean:

Several well-aimed strikes with the Corpsman's makeshift batons neutralize any threat between him and the nearest Corsair ringleader; let's call him Corsair Two. Upon finishing off the last lower-level Corsair in his way — taken down with a scissor kick — Stone lunges up to spear one half of the cane into his target's groin.

I manage to force away the sympathy pains in time to see Stone stifle Corsair Two's scream by shoving the remaining half of the cane into the latter's mouth and letting forward momentum do the rest of the work in their fall to the ground. 

Corsair Three takes the initiative and blindly rushes the prone Corpsman with a club held high. Stone forces the ringleader to the ground with a kick to the knee and keeps him there by ripping his neck open with a dropped shiv. The Corpsman follows up by slashing at the leg of a lower-level Corsair. The thug falls to the ground to get the shiv buried into his eye socket.

Corsair Four goes down as some kind of kestrel rips open his neck and tears out an eye. Several other thugs go down in a similar way.

In the meantime, I feel useless just standing here and gaping. Unless…

As I crouch down to the ground with an idea, Corsair Five and Six move in to attack the Corpsman as he springs up. Corsair Five gets elbowed in the nose for his trouble, followed by a mule kick to the groin; an additional kick to the face drops him like a brick as Corsair Six and several lower-level Corsairs clutch their now open throats. Before I can shout out a warning, Stone issues a pained gasp when hit in the side with a club wielded by Corsair Seven. What the ringleader probably didn't expect however is for Stone to grab his arm and snap it backwards. The shriek turns into a wet gurgle as the shiv breaks and finds its final resting spot, and his body is thrown in the direction of Corsair Eight.

With the lack of weapons in Stone's hands, the Corsairs rush him en masse. Though if they expect success from a group attack against an unarmed opponent, they're sorely mistaken. Most of the time the Corpsman moves like water, punctuated by brief moments of an almost crystalline state; the former allows him to grapple or flow around his attackers — often using their own attacks against them and their comrades — while the latter offers jackhammer-like force behind swift blows, be they from upper or lower limbs.

In the meantime, Corsair Five stumbles up in an attempt to flee. He doesn't get to complete that action as the nearby inmates mob and drag him back down, with one using what has to be her remaining strength to grab a large rock and slam it down upon the ruffian's skull. Unfortunately, that also gets the attention of some nearby Corsairs, and they move to attack their emaciated counterparts.

I don't let them. Because with a motion of my arm and flick of the wrist, a small goes rock flying as if it's to skip. Except, instead of hitting the surface of a lake, it flies straight into the temple of the nearest Corsair.

Pa taught me the skill in case I had no weapons and required fending off a mid-sized threat; also just for the fun of it when by still waters. Turns out it's quite effective against humans if done right. It also has my companions and even the prisoners utterly flummoxed, but I just offer terse statements to focus on the threat at hand… and for Marcus to pass me more rocks. Even when the hits aren't lethal or crippling, the constant stream in conjunction with the birds is enough to keep the Corsairs off-balance and away from the rest of the prisoners.

Corsair Eight can barely deflect the twitching body of Corsair Seven before Stone's fingers dig into his eyes — to his credit, the Corsair does manage to punch the Corpsman in the face — and his scream-laden writhing is silenced with Commodus' club coming down upon his face repeatedly. By now, the Corpsman relies purely on brute strength as he simply chucks the club into the face of Corsair Nine and uses that pain-induced hesitation to tackle the guy and…  _damn_.

With their leadership effectively destroyed, the main body of the Corsairs scatters to the wind like the cowards they are. Okay, the fact that my companions now hold the dropped weapons and are backed by the Watch probably helps a bit.

Just as well; because when Stone rises, his breath comes out in ragged pants as he wipes away blood-mixed beads of sweat and clutches at his side. However, the one thing I truly notice is the pair of feral eyes staring out from a mask of crimson. Honestly, I think he wanted this fight and wants it to continue, and the way that contrasts with his earlier demeanor is downright terrifying. Fortunately, said expression fades away before he yells back to the crowd of stunned and silent inmates with exhausted cheer: "Hey… sorry… but physicals… may be… slightly… delayed."

The inmates, after recovering from their spectacle-induced stupor, simply respond with a collective and enthusiastic holler. I don't know whether to join in or stay terrified.

Sel must have stopped hiding, because I hear him pipe, "Birdies!"

Indeed, several of the jabberjays perch on Stone's shoulders and the kestrel sits right atop his head, with the latter busy nibbling away at the… debris in his hair. The Corpsman merely reacts by grinning with a casual glance upwards and chirping, "Yep… backup… and cleanup."

Stone staggers back in our direction — Beetee rushes to his side to assist — and reaches down to pluck Commodus' communicator off the ground. As he leans up against the victor, the Corpsman turns the item on to remark, "That ain't very nice."

With the tone he has, you'd think he's merely chiding a child about the importance of manners, not accusing someone of trying to get him killed.

The warden isn't very impressed when he states, "You caused quite a bit of disruption here. You should have left in the beginning."

In response, I pluck the communicator out from the Corpsman's hand and growl into it: "You shouldn't have set your thugs on one of our allies. Come to think of it, you should've been more focused on improving conditions rather than allowing thugs free reign and keeping children as hostages."

"I don't see how any of this is your concern. These are all the enemy and get what they deserve."

"The only real enemy I've seen here are those you've supported. The rest were simply on the wrong side of the war. Well, the war is over." Marcus doesn't even bother hiding his shock considering how his eyebrows shoot up. Honestly, my words surprise me a bit as well.

"Are you implying that we should let these prisoners go?"

I don't even hesitate: "Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying."

A long minute passes before the warden says, "Well… that's a pity. I guess you won't be able to leave."

 _What._  "What did you say?"

"There's been an awful uprising here, and your group got caught in the middle of it, despite our best efforts to persuade you to stay at the perimeter. Three high-profile members of the Rebellion taken out by Peacekeeper brutes… The public may even call on us to get rid of this filth once and for all."

A cold knot settles in my stomach at the whole implication of this.

However, Beetee and Stone begin chortling as if they've just heard the funniest joke. As the rest of our bewildered group stares at them, the victor takes off his glasses to wipe some tears out of his eyes and wheezes, "Wow… that… that really wasn't smart."

"Care to share with us what's so funny?" Paylor asks in a tone that suggest she doesn't share their amusement.

For some reason, Stone asks for the communicator… and for me to order him to take action. Despite the strange and vague nature of the request, I comply; it's not like there's anything else we can do. The Corpsman responds by addressing the warden: "Sir, may I ask what rank you are?"

I can almost see the warden puff up from here. "The Army of District Thirteen and the Rebellion does not subscribe to antiquated notions as rankings. We're all soldiers under Coin's great leadership."

"So… I reckon that unless you're a commander or something, you might as well be a private. In which case, this makes things easier," the Corpsman notes before taking on a cold professional tone: 

"Under orders from Commander Gale Hawthorne of the Army of the Rebellion and District Two," — Damn, when he says it like that, my position sounds pretty impressive. — "I, Corporal Lucius Stone of the Guardian Corps, declare this garrison unfit for prisoner oversight. You're to stand down, relinquish authority, and await detention for mismanagement and conspiracy to eliminate superior officers."

The ultimatum gets a laugh from the warden. "And how are you going to enforce that? Also, what proof do you have of this 'conspiracy'?"

Instead of replying, Stone simply holds a hand against his ear and asks, "You in yet?"

In response, the projectors turn back on. But instead of the usual set of propos, it's a replay of the announcement to trap us in here. It doesn't take me long to figure out that it was recorded by those glasses Stone wears. As for where it's broadcasted to…

Beetee proceeds to chirp, "As I said before, that wasn't smart."

Almost immediately, a large form drops from the cloud cover to stop right over the main gate. The transport looked fairly menacing when it was just landing back in the square, but now… now guns the size of artillery pieces aim at key spots around the camp, and missile launchers pop up from alcoves. All the while, the birds take to the air to flock around the watchtowers.

"You have thirty seconds to announce an unconditional surrender," Stone declares with no room for dissent, "or _we will kill you all_.

"Fact."

~oOo~

Unfortunately, we're not allowed to release the prisoners. We can't even release the civilians imprisoned here.

Because, while Paylor and I may have the authority of commanders, the orders for the camp indeed came from President Coin herself. There's a signed document and all authorizing the measure. I'm thinking of confronting the president about the whole situation, but for some reason, Paylor tells me to hold off on that and simply allow her to work damage control; she and Beetee are already on their way to the Capitol after I've briefed them about the situation in this district.

So instead, we focus on improving the situation at hand. What I am able to do is relieve the warden and guards of their duties. When the former guards aren't detained at their encampment, they now serve as the labor force to sort and bury the dead in the nearby plot of land; the surviving members of the Corsairs — with help from the prisoners, we're able to root out the ones who attempted to go into hiding — now join them as well. In the meantime, officially, authority of the camp now falls under my jurisdiction; I've even moved my office down here to work with Marcus — who can now be near his family — about the Nut. In practice however, the day-to-day operations fall under Stone's watch after explicit permission granted from his commander.

The Corpsman may have been dropped into an unfamiliar situation, but he succeeds in making the place run like a well-oiled machine; this is even despite how he's busy personally administering medical care. Besides directing the medics — other than that head medic, who had to be… persuaded, the rest are cooperative — he delegates various tasks to the fitter inmates; in the process, they are given a sense of purpose. Stone admits that many prisoners are still unlikely to make it due to being too far gone; however, even with prioritized care, he's insistent on making sure that even those on their way out are as comfortable as possible.

The one way I'm able to contribute is to reconnect the camp with the rest of the district. It's easy to recruit construction workers — a lot of them consist of the new arrivals — to help overhaul the whole place, as well as medics, healers, and district doctors to provide medical care. After an extensive screening process, sympathetic soldiers from Thirteen and this district now serve as the main body of guards for both the camp and now-detained previous camp administration. Also a set of communications hubs are set up between the camp and the city so that the prisoners can now get in contact with their families. And with the assistance of local officials, trains now regularly drop off shipments of grain and rations to the camp.

Within just a week, the camp is transformed. The internal "dead line" perimeter is gone and fence turned off to reroute electricity to utilities; even if there's an attempted escape, we still have guards on duty, and the isolated location in winter is an effective deterrent in itself. All excrement has been cleaned away — besides the stuff on the ground, the channels had to be overhauled to allow the river to flush out the contaminated water — and there are now showers and toilets installed plus a treatment facility to help provide clean drinking water. Shelters with heating are erected just in time for the falling temperature. Food and medical care is provided in a consistent manner. And a now-honest and effective internal policing system has been formed from the Watch and other volunteers.

What's funny is that this has given me a sense of accomplishment that I've never thought I'd get from helping out people formerly the enemy. I'm not even talking in relative terms.

However, it's not like I can do this the whole time — not to mention the small fact that these people are still imprisoned — and by the end of the week, I'm called to the Capitol for an important reason:

I have an inauguration to attend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No doubt Camp Victory has some Holocaust vibes. While that is a valid conclusion — as are Bataan and Hanoi Hilton — what I actually based this on was Andersonville, which was a Confederate POW camp during the American Civil War. Conditions there… were not pleasant — there are pictures of released inmates if you wish to see — and there was such a thing as the "dead line". The Corsairs themselves were based on the Andersonville Raiders, who were inmates who stole from, bullied, and killed their peers; the difference is that Andersonville actually put a stop to those ruffians via the other inmates.
> 
> The Capitol itself would also have prison camps with deplorable conditions. These would also be geared for the purpose of labor in the wake of the Capitol's usual sources of industry drying up.


	6. Outliving One's Usefulness

My uniform suffocates me, and the quiver that I carry might as well be as well be a hundred pounds as I rap on the door and peer my head into the remake room. After all, this is the first time in over a month I've looked at, much less talked to,  _her_.

"Can I have a minute?"

A moment of confusion passes between the three members of the prep team before they settle for scurrying into the bathroom. Normally, I'd find that amusing, but I don't miss their constant fear. And why shouldn't they be afraid? I held no sympathy for the awful conditions in which they were held in Thirteen; that I've now personally seen the reprehensibility of such things matters little. Also, Beetee has told me about how all the stylists and preps — at least the ones Snow hasn't already executed — have been publically eliminated by Coin due to their connection to the Games. The only high-profile personality untouched so far has been Caesar Flickerman who somehow managed to not only avoid execution but still has retained his position, more or less, for this new government; I guess a friendly and familiar face is needed on the air for at least the Capitolites.

In any case, it does give me time alone to look upon the girl that I've admired much of my life; Katniss doesn't bother turning around but instead looks at my reflection in the mirror while I do the same with her. The prep team did a good job; at this point you can't even see any trace of the burns, healed or otherwise, on her; the only hint being that her hair's gone from the braid to boyish. Yet that is not the main thing I notice.

What I notice is how utterly lost she looks; how at odds she is now with that fiery Mockingjay the Rebellion looked up to. It's as if she's been caught out in a storm and simply hunkering down in wait for someone to help her get back home. But when she fixes her gaze on me, analyzing my presence and going through her own thoughts, I realize that I'm not that someone. There's no way that I can be him.

Whatever future between us that I've hoped for, it's all gone now. There probably wasn't anything to begin with, and I've simply been crafting the whole thing all in my mind and attempting to project it onto her.

In any case, I guess there's no use dwelling on it now.

"I brought you this." I hold out the quiver for her to take. As she does and looks into it, her confusion becomes apparent. "It's supposed to be symbolic: you firing the last shot of the war."

"What if I miss? Does Coin retrieve it and bring it back to me? Or just shoot Snow through the head herself?"

Leave it to Katniss to draw that hypothetical scenario. Before, such a statement would have been accompanied with a wry tone, and we'd laugh despite the macabre nature of the situation. Now though… now it just sounds hollow and lifeless.

"You won't miss," I say with a shake of my head as I take the quiver and secure it over her shoulder.

Despite my reassuring words and familiar nature of the motion, a palpable silence falls. Katniss doesn't meet my eyes… I don't meet hers. Both of us wait for the other to say something to break this stalemate…

Which she does: "You didn't come see me in the hospital." Insert knife.

There's no hostility there when she asks that; no resentment; just… nothing. In the end, I find that this is worse than if she'd scream or sob at me. A multitude of excuses come welling up — many of which are actually valid due to orders from Command — but I don't bother saying them; in the end, I know that they'll mean nothing to her. Hell, in this case, I know that they'll mean nothing to me. So I just stand here, dumbly waiting for her to say something else which would cement the rift between us.

Which also happens. "Was it your bomb?" Twist.

I don't bother asking how she found out. Katniss has always been smart, she was there to look over my plans, and in the end… she was there to see those bombs firsthand. With all that, it's inevitable that she'd connect all the dots.

"I don't know. Neither does Beetee." A technical truth which does nothing to offer any sort of closure. In the end though, I know those words aren't for Katniss, who knows better; they are to stall and shield myself from the inevitable. "Does it matter? You'll always be thinking about it."

She doesn't say anything; she doesn't have to. Beyond that mask of nothingness, I can catch a glimpse within her eyes of an unfathomable amount of pain that will be forever connected to me. And I know there's nothing I can do to heal that.

"That was the one thing I had going for me," I mutter. "Taking care of your family." Hell, it's the only good I've done around her. And now where has that gone?

The statement hangs in the air before I touch her cheek. I know it's be the last time I'll ever be able to do anything like that again.

Honestly, it's more than I deserve.

"Shoot straight, okay?"

With that farewell, I flee from her presence.

_"Shoot straight"? Real classy, Hawthorne…_

I'm too busy thinking about this that I almost bowl right into President Coin, who seems to be heading to the main waiting room.

Fortunately, the president doesn't seem to be bothered by it and simply says, "Commander Hawthorne, aren't you supposed to be outside by now?"

For some reason, I'm getting this desire to say something really stupid, but so far I'm managing to push it down. "I'm heading there right now, ma'am. I just needed to give that arrow to Katniss."

"Ah," she responds with an approving nod. "Is she ready?"

_She looks anything but ready…_  "More than she'll ever be; definitely ready to get revenge on Snow for what happened to Prim." I don't know why, but my gut instinct tells me that modifier's needed.

Another nod. "A pity what happened with her sister."

"Yeah… about that…" And just like that, that desire to run my mouth wins over all reason. "Ma'am, were those my bombs?"  _Why did you say that? WHY DID YOU SAY THAT?_

If only for a millisecond, Coin freezes, but she regains the air of impassivity. "What makes you ask that?"

_Well, might as well go from here._  "I was just looking over the footage, and the process seems very similar to my plans — scratch that; it's pretty much identical."

"A mere coincidence," she mentions with a dismissive wave. "We know that Snow had multitudes of engineers working under him; it was inevitable one of them would come up with similar plan. We also know he doesn't hesitate in harming children."

Of course, I could leave this be at this stage — it's clear Coin's not going to give any more info — but I don't. "No, it's too close to be a coincidence," I assert with a shake of the head.

"Hawthorne…"

"So either they took our plans and adapted them, which says something really troubling about the kind of security we have…"  _Idiot, shut up! SHUT UP!_ "Or the ones who really dropped them were—"

"There's nothing more to discuss about the issue," she implores as she begins to turn on her heels to head off to her destination. In that time, everything about her that I've never truly paid attention to during the Rebellion clicks into place.

People have occasionally told me that I have anger issues, to which I usually tell them to fuck off. Thing is, there is this point when you're so upset that even though you know you're saying something really stupid, you still can't stop yourself. Like right now. "You're even worse than Snow."

That stops Coin in her tracks. "Excuse me?"

Okay so even in this state of anger, most rational people know to rein it when the person they are insulting responds. Except that rationality and I don't exactly get along. "At least Snow gave no illusion about his kind of government. You… you have been playing everybody all along just so you could take control." At this point, Marcus would probably be muttering something about anger and stupidity.

I swear I catch something very ugly flash behind those creepy gray eyes. "You know, between this and the little stunt pulled at Camp Victory — oh yes; I heard all about that — I'm beginning to have certain questions…"

"As to what?"

"As to your commitment to the Rebellion."

_What is that supposed to mean?_  Actually, I have a good idea, and my insides fill with ice at the implication. Yet my response is a simple, "I've never felt as committed as I do now."

I don't know how much time passes, but both of us stare at each other and refuse to break eye contact until she finally says, "Very well. After we get this event is taken care of, report directly to my office, and we can discuss any grievances you may have. I'm sure we'll manage to come to an understanding." With that, she continues on her merry way.

"I doubt it…" I murmur before continuing on my not-so-merry way.

Why did I ever support her? It's now blatantly clear that Coin just wants power for herself. Was I so consumed with the thought of striking back at the Capitol that I not only allowed myself to stoop to reprehensible measures but also failed to see the threat front of me?

The entire Capitol seems to be out and about when I exit the Mansion onto the front terrace. They not only fill the City Circle all the way up to the front steps but spill into all the surrounding streets. On the terrace itself, key civil and military leaders of the Rebellion gather in groups to the side while a post has been set up in the very middle; my back twinges a bit at the sight of it, but I ignore the sensation. In fact, it's probably a bit welcome compared to how I feel as my mind unravels the full implications of the conversation I just had and takes it to its logical conclusion.

As I fill my spot right next to Paylor, the District Eight commander looks concernedly at me and asks, "Gale, are you alright?"

I don't know why, but her query causes a laugh to bubble up. It's not out of control or anything, but it's enough to turn some heads; I simply wave them off in a gesture that tells them that they need not concern themselves. When they finally subside, I make sure nobody else can listen in — it helps that the crowd provides a nice ambient noise — and mutter with a grin, "You were right; confronting Coin is a bad idea."

"What happened?" she hisses in a sharper manner.

It doesn't matter; it doesn't matter anymore. Even if I decide to skip Coin's meeting… "As soon as possible, see if you can get my family someplace safe." After a moment's thought, "The Wilsons and Anders as well; Marcus may be a bit cranky, but he—"

"Gale, it shouldn't come to that."

I just shake my head and chortle a bit more. "It's obvious that I'm not going to survive today."

"It's  _not_  going to come to that." The conviction in the commander's voice actually pulls me up short. She's not just trying to make me feel better; she honestly thinks there's nothing to worry about.

However, even if I wasn't smart enough not to ask questions, the cheers of the crowd are enough to distract me toward back towards my surroundings. At this point the last people to line up in a group are the victors, and it's clear that they are some of the only people here who aren't happy about today; in fact, most of them actually look pretty shaken-up for some reason, and Mellark — from those scars, he got hit even worse than Katniss by the bombs — is debating with Haymitch about something.

I can't dwell on that either as the ambient noise increases to a collective roar as Coin steps out to the balcony and Katniss walks out in her Mockingjay armor. Snow follows soon after and is tied to the post. I expected the tyrant to be angry or fearful at his predicament, or at the very least resigned, but he actually looks… amused. And when his executioner takes her position, I can see them make eye contact, and it's as if an unspoken conversation goes between them before she finally takes action.

Katniss shoots straight after all, proving me right in that she doesn't miss.

However, it's not Snow she hits. Instead, the crowd falls silent around the same time President Coin tumbles from the balcony and meets the pavement head-first; if the arrow didn't kill her, a resounding crunch and splatter on stone signifies that the impact certainly finishes the job.

Snow decides to be the one to break the silence, finding humor in the whole situation before he begins drowning in his own blood. Honestly, as much as I hate that piece of shit, I'd probably laugh with him… if it weren't for the fact that the guards seem to be less amused.

The moment the guards begin to close in on Katniss though, the other victors go absolutely berserk; it's definitely not planned because they, barring Haymitch, initially looked just as surprised as the rest of us. But either way, it's as if a switch has been turned because all of them — even Enobaria — fall upon the surprised soldiers with a snarl as if they're a pack of wild dogs seeing a lone wounded deer. After that point, everybody else seems to join in on the melee. Well… except for one.

I look to see that Mellark is somehow slipping through the ensuing fracas to make his way towards Katniss, who appears to be eerily serene and resigned to her fate. That's when, to my horrified comprehension, she raises her left arm and prepares to bite down on the sleeve… only to meet Mellark's hand. I can see him wince as blood runs down from the fresh wound, but despite Katniss protests, he refuses to let go until they are forced apart.

At that point, Katniss begins screaming my name. It's obvious what she wants, and I have the capability to grant her wish right in my hands, courtesy of the guard I just tackled and stunned. Yet… I can't. Even if my arm didn't decide to go into the shakes at this very moment, I can't just take her life like this, despite what may be waiting in store for her; now I know what she must have felt when I was captured. So the window of opportunity closes the same moment those doors slam shut behind her.

The whole mess actually doesn't last very long — probably five minutes, tops — before Paylor manages to take control of the situation and restore order. And surprisingly, there aren't any serious injuries, barring probable hurt feelings, resulting from this. Well, except for the lifeless bodies of Snow and Coin slumped and crumpled, respectively, where they are… but fuck'em.

In any case, after a verbal dressing-down — the whole crowd of rebels, officials, victors, and Capitolites might as well be little children judging by the way she's addressing us; I'm not sure that it's entirely undeserved — everybody is told to go home and a curfew is enacted while they figure out where to go from here.

For me, I'm ordered right back to Two.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goes without saying that the words taking place during Gale and Katniss' last meeting are not mine but Suzanne Collins'.


	7. X Fretensis

If I didn't know any better, I'd think that Paylor planned this from the start. At the very least, it's clear that she managed to take control of the situation quickly and effectively. However, I honestly don't think she conspired with Katniss to have Coin taken out or anything like that.

In any case, it's just as well that it happened, and I'm not just talking for my own sake. Beetee informed me that before the execution, the victors were told to vote on, of all things, a Game consisting of Capitol children. The vote was evenly tied, with Katniss and Haymitch casting the deciding vote in the affirmative. It explains why Mellark was in such a foul mood at the time; before I would have probably just called the baker soft, but now… I couldn't figure out why they would vote in that manner either, especially considering how Katniss would clash with me about all my hateful rhetoric, until I realized it was to keep Coin off her back.

It still fills me with shame that I saw little wrong with Coin until towards the end. The sick bitch actually wanted to pick up where Snow left off, and the alternative she gave was a systematic massacre of Capitol citizens. It's now obvious that we were going to be trading in one tyrant for another. While Katniss may have not figured out Coin's full nature during the war, she clearly distrusted her and the president knew that; it must be why Mellark was assigned to our squad: to eliminate Katniss in a manner that renders the instigator blameless. Still, while Coin was a horrible monster, I'm beginning to suspect that I've been little better.

Coin's potential tyranny hasn't stopped many from desiring Katniss' head. We were lucky enough that Paylor got her soldiers involved to prevent anything extrajudicial happening to Katniss. However, she's still required to stand trial for her actions, and I'm slated to return to the Capitol next month as a key witness.

On the upside, Paylor is proving herself to be the opposite of her predecessors. There's probably not going to be any more Games, and one of the first things she did was crack down on retributive violence done in the Capitol. Any soldier caught looting or vandalizing gets the lash; terrorizing, lynching, or rape gets the firing squad. Of course it's too early to tell, and for all we know she may not even stick around after everything settles down. It still seems clear that she's pushing us in the right direction, despite the vitriolic protests of those who say she's not being harsh enough on people who worked for or served under the old regime.

No time was wasted in closing Camp Victory and releasing those imprisoned there. The "unofficial" rebel-run detention facilities also closed, leading to a large influx of Two's soldiers returning home; the fact that they were actually treated relatively well was initially met with shock by those here. 

To seal the deal, a general blanket amnesty was issued for those who fought on the side of the Capitol, Peacekeeper and loyalist irregular alike; again, there were a loud set of detractors, which were ignored. Of course, the amnesty's invalid to those known to have blatantly abused their power or committed atrocities. It probably helped that, out of the prisoners, those who fell under that slot were the type to join the Corsairs anyways. Some, such as those who worked the Capitol prisons and labor camps, got the firing squad; however, most received indefinite labor duty for the recovery effort. Same thing for the original guards at Camp Victory.

The exception to this was the warden. Besides the obvious case about the condition of Camp Victory, the fact that he conspired to eliminate high-ranking members of the Rebellion gave him no leeway. In the end, after declaring him guilty, he was given to District Two for them to determine and carry out the sentence: public hanging from the Sword of Mars and Bellona. However, instead of being dropped from a platform, he was hoisted up from the ground all the way up to the hilt.

While Paylor made it clear that the practice will be phased out, my thought was that it couldn't have happened to nicer fellow. Granted, at the same time, watching the asshole thrash most of that hundred meters made me wonder how many people here would like the same thing to happen to me.

On a lighter note, the Wilsons and Anders were among those released from the camp along with the other civilians. However, with the destruction of the Victors' Village and lack of space in Marcus' tenement, it was decided that they'd lodge with us; it's not like the palace — given to me as a reward before the Capitol push — lacks rooms. Marcus was naturally suspicious of anything perceived as a pity handout but decided to move in as well after some pressuring from Mercury.

Fortunately, the new residents have been welcomed by my family — if anything, we're just happy that at least some of the other bedrooms are being filled — and the current ambivalence the former Peacekeeper has towards me doesn't extend towards them. Ma's unable to stop doting over Sel, as well as Mercury's little twin sisters Breccia and Jasper. Also, Rory and Marcus actually get along quite well, with the latter getting some resources to help the former improve his marksmanship; to my slight disappointment, my brother prefers rifles to bows. Vick and Posy are just happy to have a wider assortment of company.

Marcus may no longer hate me, but he still displays some wariness — of course it's not shown during dinner — as if he's convinced that I could stumble and revert back to my old ways. If anything, the same could be said for the residents of Two in general; while my actions at the camp seem to have earned some goodwill, what I did several months ago still looms. Honestly, at this point, I don't blame them. And what matters is that the former Peacekeeper now is willingly working with me, even though he no longer has any obligation to stay; granted, he states that me letting them stay in my home provides enough of an obligation. In the end, his familiarity with the specifics of the Nut has been invaluable, especially with the latest information brought up.

By now, the exterior rubble has been successfully cleared out, and probes have determined that the majority of the complex retained structural integrity; it's really only areas near the exits that are affected, as well as infrastructural systems that are easily repairable. The projection is that within a year, the place will be able to be cleaned up, reinforced, and restored to previous capacity. There's just one minor issue: there may still be survivors.

It turns out that deep within the complex, there's a facility made to serve as a bunker in times of emergency. Unlike the rest of the Nut, Masada, as it's coined, actually has internal air circulators made to operate for almost a year and food stores that last the same amount of time if the population is low enough. It's unknown how many people made it in there, but things could range from a couple dozen to around a thousand people.

However, another thing's important about Masada: it's the backup office and residence — the main one's in the now-wrecked structure that served as the Justice Building — of the Head Peacekeeper. Antonia Cohen's not just known to be the last Head Peacekeeper of District Two but also the second-to-last Generalisimus of the Peacekeeper Corps. Upon the capitulation of Two, the last person to be appointed that position was the possibly-late Romulus Thread; if the rumors are true, I'm still not going to shed any tears.

As Marcus concedes to me, Cohen's about as fanatically loyal as they get. So there's a good chance that any survivor there is in lockstep with her, which will make contact and ultimately recovery a bit problematic. Still, work won't be able to be started on the Nut until contact due to the risk of units sent from there to attack any "intruder".

Ultimately it's decided to attempt recovering potential survivors, despite the risks; Paylor agrees with me as to the necessity. Also after going through all possible challenges, including what we'll possibly encounter once we reach Masada itself, a squad is determined to be the best fit for the main part; despite the potentially large and just-as-potentially hostile surviving population, it's not practical to force in a larger unit. If live recovery turns out to be unattainable, then at least there should be closure. I know that, even with a successful operation, it won't come even close to making up for what I've done, but it's better than doing nothing. That's why, to Marcus' considerable surprise, I've also decided to personally head the mission on the ground; if for nothing else, I need to see firsthand the full results of my actions. 

I just wish I could do it without Plutarch Heavensbee shining the public spotlight on this whole operation, as if there isn't already enough pressure. After a certain point, I've learned to look past his Capitol and Gamemaker background to recognize him for what he really is as a person: a pompous and overbearing jackass with delusions of grandeur. I guess with Kantiss' trial not starting for about a month, he wants something to catch the public attention and found it here. After some tense… negotiations, I manage to limit the main media presence to Cressidia and Pollux; considering what they've gone through, they above all the other media buzzards deserve to get that primetime slot. Also the other condition is that nothing will air until the mission is over; while we don't know if they get any reception down there, the last thing we need is for those holed up there to anticipate our arrival.

One thing Heavensbee has managed to get his way is the name of our operation: Fretensis. After getting some info, I find out why he chose that name: Legio X Fretensis was the military unit tasked with bringing down the mountain fortress of Masada, which they succeeded at doing, over two thousand years ago. The part that's likely not going to be mentioned on air is how Masada belonged to a group of people rebelling against an autocratic and continent-spanning empire; that same empire being the one which provided the basis for this very nation, especially including much of the culture in the Capitol and Two.

Fucking irony.

~oOo~

"Doc," — barring those who know him, everybody calls Stone that instead of his rank — "there's… ah… something I need to tell you."

He ceases reviewing his gear to look at me with no small amount of curiosity. "Sir?"

Despite being part of an outside organization, the Corpsman's coming with us on this mission not just to provide medical assistance but to serve as my second-in-command. He not only proved his leadership capability back in Camp Victory but is one of the few people I can count on to view soldiers from both Two and Thirteen — the unit's an even mix — neutrally, as well as any possible survivors we may meet.

There's really no easy way for me to say what I'm planning on saying, but if the Corpsman's going to have my back, I need to be level with him. So I take him to the side and out of earshot from everybody else before blurting out, "I was the one who came up with the idea for the bombs dropped in the Capitol."

A few minutes pass in which he goes absolutely still before finally pursing his lips and sighing: "Honestly, sir, I ain't surprised."

"Oh…"

A sad smile forms as he regards me. "Uncle Benny told you how I reacted, didn't he. And you expect me to get mad or something."

I nod my head. "I don't know what he told you, but he wasn't the one who came up with whole concept; he just adapted my ideas."

"Sir—"

"You can just call me 'Gale'."

This time, his smile widens into something warmer. "I'll keep that in mind, and you can call me Luce. However, so long as we're both wearing uniforms, you're still 'sir'," he states while going back to his inventory check-up. "Anyways, the difference between you and Uncle Benny is that you ain't the one I've looked up to, and still do, as a father figure for over a decade. Yeah, reckon this answer's a bit of a copout, but it's just how it is."

"No," I acknowledge, "it makes sense."

"But you're wondering why I ain't so surprised, right?" When I nod again, all he does is point his head in the direction of our destination. "There's your answer."

Honestly, I should have seen that coming sooner but still manage to repeat, "Oh…"

"We all saw how gleeful you were as tens of thousands of people were buried alive. Compared to that… well, admitting to designing bombs that you didn't even personally drop sounds a bit trivial, don't you think?"

"Well…"

"Yes, there's something about those bombs much more evil than this. Even though I come from a place where weaponry crafting is a point of local pride, I can't condone anything that specifically targets medics or at least punishes compassion." I actually see, if but for just a second, something harsh and cold in those hazel eyes reminding me of what he did to those Corsairs. "My point is that, by the time I came here, I already made peace with the fact that I'd potentially be working with someone with the blood of thousands on his hands."

That's a blunt way of putting it, but before I can say anything, Luce adds, "At the same time, I've seen your concern over Marcus and the prisoners at Camp Victory. And you do seem willing to repent for your sins, so…" A vague shrug is given with a smile, yet I think I got the general gist of things. "Anyways, have you told anyone else yet?"

I shake my head. I know I'll probably have to say something sooner or later, but… I don't feel ready yet. "Besides those already in the know, you're the first one."

A small sigh is uttered from the Corpsman. "Well, it ain't my forgiveness that matters, but if it makes you feel any better, I reckon you're a good guy. Fact."

"… Thanks." I mean it.

Luce gives me one last smile before he puts on his mask. Unlike our clear full-face gasmasks — with a tinting mechanism only offered in special operations units — his is a rigid and close-fitting piece that covers the bottom half of his face and locks into place with his glasses to create a tightly-sealed facial protection in the process. There also the image painted over it that consists of a full set of fangs bared in an animalistic and skeletal grin.

As he trades his cap for a helmet, the Corpsman must notice me staring because he proceeds to cock his head to the side while asking, "Something the matter, sir?"

I point to the toothy source of my consternation. "Do you guys have to make  _every_  single damn thing nightmare-inducing?" Even their medical craft has similar stuff painted on the front.

"What, this? The kids back home like it." From his tone, Luce actually sounds  _confused_  as to why anybody would consider such a visage to be on the unnerving side.

Makes me wonder a bit what young children in his little community consider to be fun… On second thought, I probably don't want to know. At least he's not bringing mutts this time; despite being helpful at Camp Victory, they still bug me.

So the only response I offer is a shake of the head as I don my mask and helmet before grabbing a gun. After making sure everything and everybody else is in place, I motion for the rest of the squad to begin our trek into the Nut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random Trivia Bit:
> 
> In case you are wondering where the Nut is here, I placed it and Martius City in Summit County, Colorado. Originally, it was going to be near Colorado Springs due to Cheyenne Mountain, but the mountains in Summit Co have more apparent avalanche paths, secure spots to put various entrances for hovercraft, and wouldn't be destroyed like Cheyenne Mountain (in the event that things go hot, that would be one of the first places hit; even if it survived a direct hit, the geological integrity of the mountain would be compromised due to internal fracturing).
> 
> Probably with some irony, and despite the Roman subject matter, the sculpture owes more inspiration to Eastern art; especially the standing Confucian and Buddhist figures of East and Southeast Asia.
> 
> The structure that served as the Justice Building is also based on an intersection of Islamic and East Asian architecture (think Potala Palace meets Fetehpur Sikri meets Seven Great Temples of Nara meets Hassan II Mosque) instead of neoclassical styling.


	8. Masada

I hate being underground.

I've never mentioned it to anybody, but I actually hated being in District Thirteen, even though I was an ardent supporter during the war; I now know better, but that's not the point. Sure Thirteen's comprised of brightly-lit corridors of smooth reinforced concrete instead of dark crudely-excavated tunnels barely propped up by wooden beams; it doesn't matter as it's still more than a bit similar to a mine. Our foray into the Capitol's sewers during the final days of the war didn't exactly help my perceptions about underground passageways either.

The Nut's a mine and sewer combined.

It's really not that bad when we began the trek. After passing about a klick of tunnel, we enter into the foyer of the complex. Both sides of the hall are flanked with the rails that come in from the outside before disappearing into another set of tunnels, with signage color-coded for destinations; the area in the middle is simply flat expanse of polished granite that would have served as a place to switch trains and enter the elevators. Unlike Thirteen, the underground setting doesn't exclude ornamentation as massive columns accent the room in a manner that conveys strength and elegance.

Granted, the grand nature of the setting simply makes the scorch mark along the far wall — from the train which was on fire that night — all the more apparent. Other forms of damage all throughout hint at the desperate rush to evacuate, and there's the fact that it wasn't just debris removed from this place. It doesn't get better when we proceed along the marked rail line.

The trains here aren't connected to the national grid but rather specifically made for this facility. Whenever they need to ascend or descend to another level, special cog-wheels on the undercarriage and a cable system built into the tracks help them deal with the incline; it's like the mine carts we used, but at a larger and more complex scale with some trains large enough to carry tanks inside. Once we reach our destination, the final plan is to call in a special air-sealed train to transport any survivors back.

On the upside, Masada's a relative straight-shot along the line and on the same level as us; which means we don't have to deal with the broken cable stations. On the downside, past the foyer is where no work's been done, and electricity hasn't been restored from the outside; so we're going in dark. As our rifle lights flick on, cameras switch to low-light setting; I had every member of our squad get helmet cams — including Luce, who already has who-knows-how-many cameras attached to himself — to document the whole endeavor and so Cressida could have some footage to work with. We also need to keep our masks on as there's almost no oxygen left while a dangerous level of sulfur dioxide and other noxious fumes are present.

Just a little ways into the tunnel is where we run across the inevitable.

At first it's just a Peacekeeper here or worker there, but the number of corpses increases the further we go until there's a continuous field of them; at certain points, the squad's forced to pick up a body and move it to the side to keep the tracks clear. Many are posed in the state of fleeing when they fell, and they still clutch at their throats or chests from either smoke inhalation or suffocation; others were obviously dropped by debris resulting from machinery overload. Some bear self-inflicted wounds from blade or bullet as a way to skip to the inevitable.

The worst part is that, barring the ones touched by fire — resulting from air pumps exploding from the overloaded strain of being blocked by the avalanches — those not charred are still fairly recognizable after all this time. Yes, the skin's now distorted and covered in a waxy soap-like substance; yet, despite said distortion, features still remain intact as I'm forced to look upon them. I can sometimes even see final expressions, usually that of terror, etched on their faces.

With each step I take… each body I see… I feel my stomach twisting and blood draining as breathing goes ragged. And then I take into account that this is only one section of one tunnel on one level of one massive networked complex.

_All these people…_

_These people knew what they were getting into when they supported the Capitol. This—_

_This is no way to go…_

We're barely half-a-klick in when something catches my attention. At first, it looks just like all of the other Peacekeeper corpses littering the tunnel. Yet he's posed as if holding something. As I approach the body, a voice in my head tells me how there's no point to this… that I should just move on. Still… I can't; something stronger states that I have to see this.

When I finally reach the body, I kneel down and slowly turn him over on his back.

_No…_

The small form cradled in his arms can't any be more than a year old.

_Nonononono…_

I reel and stumble back, only to trip and land face-to-face with another wax-covered corpse; this time of a young girl with features not distorted enough for me ignore that she's probably close to Posy's age. As I scramble back to my hands and knees, bile rises up my throat, and I tear my gasmask off. My eyes sting from contact with the air, but it doesn't matter as I expel the contents of my stomach.

"Sir. Sir! Gale!" Strong arms wrap around my shoulders as someone shouts, "Don't breathe in the air! Whatever you do, don't. Breathe. In. The. Air."

I don't know how, but I actually heed the advice as much as possible — some of that acrid atmosphere still gets through, which just makes me gag more — and the moment I stop retching, the mask is pulled back over my face with an order to take a few breaths before it's taken back off and I'm given a canteen to wash my mouth out. After the nausea finally subsides a worse feeling emerges, and I fall back to curl up in a sitting position while cradling my head. The whole time this happens, the person by my side — I just now recognize it's Luce — continues to hold onto me.

"Hey, it's going to be alright."

"I did this… I did this… I… I was cheering their deaths…"

Even if I expect for the Corpsman to deny that, he quickly puts that to rest: "Yes, that's true. But breaking down right now ain't gonna help them. We got the mission to focus on."

"I'm a monster…"

After a moment's pause, he finally whispers in a soft comforting tone, "Look… if this is too hard, you can go back; no shame in that, sir. I can lead them the rest of the way, or we can abort. Your call."

I  _could_  go back. I could tell Paylor that I'm done and wash myself of all this; move to a different district where I won't have to deal with the stares of resentful residents or a former Peacekeeper proven right about me. Hell, I can simply flee into the wilderness and leave everything behind; I've wanted to do that in the first place, and this time my family no longer needs me to care for them. So what if I'll die alone and in obscurity? At least I'll no longer have to constantly see the faces of everyone I've ever hurt and may hurt in the future. At least I won't contaminate anyone.

I could go back…

"No… no, I got this."

But I'm not going to.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I  _need_  to do this. Just… just give me a minute."

"Good man," Luce says with a pat on my shoulder as he stands back up. "I'll tell the others that we're taking a breather; reckon they need it as well." Sure enough, my squad isn't doing much better than me. "Will five minutes be alright?"

I nod in response, but before the Corpsman can walk off, I also add, "Hey Doc?"

He stops and crouches back down to face me. "Sir?"

"Thanks."

Most of Luce's face may be obscured by the damn mask — the visage created really doesn't help matters in this setting — but a crinkling of the eyes hints at his grin as he claps me on the shoulder once more before leaving me alone with my thoughts.

In that time given, I stare at the lives snuffed out by my actions. Some may argue that I didn't know that I'd be killing all these people; a more accurate assessment would be that I didn't  _care_. I wanted all of them to die, had no problem that they died in such a prolonged manner, and couldn't be bothered to see the results of my own actions. Some hero of the Rebellion I am…

_I'm responsible… I'm responsible for you all…_

As we resume our trek, I make sure to look at each and every body we come across. The deeper we go, the more frequently the corpses would comprise of the very young and possibly the very old. Many times I'd see entire families huddled together, resigned to their fate before suffocation claimed them.

Despite beginning to lose track of travel time, we eventually reach the entrance to Masada, which is a large circular vault-like door embossed with the Capitol's seal and flanked with a set of stone columns. It's also surrounded by the corpses of those who seem to have been frozen in the act of trying to get in; some have clearly been pushed to the side by the door itself, and several are actually relatively fresh — at most a week, as Luce claims — which leads to some very unpleasant implications.

The engineers in the squad immediately get to work breaking into the door while the rest of us move the bodies out of the way. During the process, other members of our squad sweep the area in case the occupants decided to leave a little "gift" for us, which really wouldn't surprise me; suspiciously enough, they find nothing.

Eventually, they manage to get the door unlocked, and we are instructed to move as far away as possible in the event of a trap; so instead of opening the door directly, we attach a cable and utilize a winch to open from a distance.

The door swings open without incident, which isn't suspicious at all.

After waiting a minute or two, we take the risk and go for it. Luce stays behind to call the train over and to serve as a contingency in case things go belly-up. Past the main entryway, there's a short corridor serving as the airlock. So after we get the main door shut, engineers begin working on the inner door; like the outer one, this one's also circular, but much less reinforced.

It doesn't take them as long to get this one unlocked. After careful deliberation, it's decided to just yank the thing open; at this point, we'd be screwed if there's some trap waiting for us regardless of whatever contingencies we have.

So as the door's prepped, we take our positions with guns out and ready in anticipation for a potential "welcome party"; it'd be nice if my arm didn't decide to go into the shakes at this very moment. In any case, whatever is behind the door, we don't miss the sounds of some debate; from the muffled voices, it sounds like a full-grown man yelling at a pleading teenager. I'm not the only person puzzled, judging by the way we look at each other, but we can't afford to contemplate right now.

On the silent count of three, the door's pulled open. In the process, the muffled quality is removed from the discourse, allowing us to hear the kid's speach:

"But Fa—"

Whatever he's about to say is interrupted with the sound of a solid impact, accompanied by a yelp and thud. I don't know why, but something about it raises my hackles and banishes any self-doubt.

As the door fully opens, we  _don't_  find ourselves greeted with a group of Peacekeepers ready to blast us into oblivion. Instead, before us is a scene, bathed in red emergency lighting, of what looks like a miner standing over a boy wearing a cadet uniform. The miner doesn't notice us as he's busy fuming at the cadet lying on the floor and clutching his head.

"YOU DARE CALL ME THAT?" he roars before kicking the boy, who just curls up into a ball. "You. Weak. Ungrateful. Little. Shi—"

"That's enough," I bark as I raise my gun to aim; beyond my veil of wrath, it dimly occurs that my hand is no longer shaking. "Drop your weapon and surrender now." 

It's at that point that we have the miner's attention. However, he doesn't surrender but, instead, whips his gun towards us with a scream: "DEATH TO—"

The man's statement's cut short with a burst from my rifle tearing into his chest and neck. As he crumples to the ground, I realize that all my regrets don't extend to this.

Unfortunately, the gunshots echo down the hallway and around the bend to the rest of the complex. If those holed up in here were unaware of our presence, they sure as hell know now.

Sure enough, and just as we advance a few steps forward, a collective cry goes up from inside the complex. An echoing cry that rarely portends anything good:

"Mors ante infamiam! MORS ANTE INFAMIAM!"

_Son of a bitch…_

I feel internal puckering but don't allow my dismay to show; instead I make the sign for the squad to take the defensive position we've drilled in, with me taking point and noting the distance between us and the end of the hall.

In a way, it'd be the more comforting move to just rush into the fight, but it wouldn't be the smartest. Still, just waiting here, with guns pointed at the furthest wall in anticipation for an attack, gives an oppressive sense of quiet tension that becomes ever more pronounced as time passes. The only thing that keeps things from full silence is the sound of breathing: measured breaths from me and my squad and gasping ones from the curled boy now behind us.

Despite how oppressive it is though, that silence becomes an asset. Because it's not long before the sound of charging footsteps reaches our ears. In turn I raise my hand, and the soldier furthest to my left — as diagonal as possible from the bend — gets his grenade ready. 

The footsteps get louder.

My hand remains raised. 

A sliver of shadow peaks behind the corner.

My hand jerks down. The grenade flies, hits the end of the hall, and rolls to disappear behind the corner. As the first Peacekeeper rounds that corner, heat and pressure washes over us to accompany the explosion that tears into our enemies and tosses their remains against the wall.

The next wave rushes us with raised blades and war cries. Our guns respond with flashes of barrel fire and cascade of spent shells.

Still, even as red marks white and bodies obstruct the way, many willingly advance the front. Ten meters from us and they keep coming, bringing us closer to the type of fight that I wish to avoid.  

Nine meters. Eight. _Fuck._ Seven.  _FUCK!_

At six meters, my gun goes empty, giving me no other option.

So I center myself to embrace the suck and draw my sword. 

It's a signal to the squad, and my periphery fills with the flash and scraping of steel leaving scabbards.

A second later, a series of thumps signal the launching of Shadowkiller grenades from my soldiers' under-barrel launchers, and our mask tinters switch on in response. For a split second, we put ourselves at risk when plunging our vision into pure darkness. However, the hall immediately fills with light bright enough that, despite our tinters, our uniforms turn as white as the enemy.

Then we rush the stunned loyalists with a resounding roar of our own. 

One Peacekeeper blindly rushes forward and grazes my vest; I weave around, block his next attack, and skewer him in the neck before slashing out. As scarlet sprays onto the walls, things merge into a haze.

Between the harsh patter of suppressing fire, wet tearing of fabric and flesh, and gurgling final breaths, there's no room for thought; there's only the fight. 

It doesn't take long to finish off the last attacker — we're counting our luck that none had grenades — and as the high of battle subsides and Shadowkillers fizzle out, we switch our tinters off and take breather.

I also make a mental note to thank Luce and Marcus for their condensed sword lessons; lessons which actually drew more from various skills I acquired back in Twelve, rather than from my time in Thirteen. Okay, it's mostly on Luce if we're being honest; I have a feeling that it's not just because of his academic skills or background that Marcus was never placed in a combat role. Still, despite me not progressing far past novice, I know things would have ended differently for me without either of their help. 

Unfortunately, the clearing of my head also means a return of the shakes in my hand. My soldiers must notice, because one quietly says, "We'll take it from here, sir. Just give the word."

So, with no more incoming enemies anticipated, I order the squad ahead. Well except for a few too wounded — one's still in too much of a high to notice her injuries — to progress without being a danger to themselves and others; them I order out to get looked at by Luce. I also remind my soldiers that the next set of defenders are probably better-equipped. Sure enough, after my squad rounds the corner — making sure to throw in a grenade and Shadowkiller beforehand just to be safe — it's not long before a cacophony of gunfire echoes in the corridors.

In the meantime, I walk over to the boy I fired first shots for.

Most of my life, I've viewed the children of Two as nothing more than budding monsters: first as Careers and later when I discovered the origin of Peacekeepers. And due to the outfit the boy has, for all rights and purposes he should fall under that category as well. In fact, I've become all too familiar with cadets tending to be some of the most vicious and fanatical adversaries; testament to that is the age of many whose blood I've just cleaned off my sword.

Only thing is, it's impossible to reconcile the image I've built in the past with the current image of a weakly sobbing boy still curled up in a ball before me. He probably used to be musclebound like any other Career; yet now, his bony frame shows beneath his uniform, and his ragged hair fails to conceal his sunken cheeks… or blood trickling down the left side of his face.

In any case, the boy soon notices my sole presence and reacts accordingly. In other words, he shores enough energy to scramble back and press up against the wall as tears continue streaming down from wide eyes. It doesn't escape my attention that he takes a couple glances at a dropped gun laying nearby.

Despite this, I keep my voice calm and placating as I approach the boy like he's a trapped animal. "It's okay; I'm not going to hurt you."

My gore-splattered mask does nothing to lighten the atmosphere, so I remove it to give him a friendly face. However, too late I realize what a bad idea that is — not just because the nausea rising from this stale circulated air now laced with the stink of death — and it becomes confirmed as to whether the bunker receives news from the outside. Because the moment he gets a good look at my face, the boy's already-present fear morphs into full-blown terror as he backs further into the wall and folds in on himself.

If this is my legacy for the rest of my life, it'll probably be well-deserved.

In deference to his justified reaction, I bow my head to mutter, "So you know who I am. Well, you have every right to hate and fear me. Still, I now want to help. Can you let me do that?" He doesn't respond but just keeps staring. So I try a different tack: "Hey, what's your name?"

The boy's voice comes out weak and raspy as if he hadn't anything to drink in a long time: "Di… Diocletian, sir…"

"That's… heh… quite a mouthful." _Seriously, what's with this district and these names?_ "Is it alright if I call you Dio?"

He looks at me in an almost confused manner but eventually — it clearly takes him an extreme amount of effort just to stay conscious — whispers, "Yes, sir…"

"Okay, Dio, can you trust me?"  _What kind of question is that? Of course he's not going to trust—_

He gives a small nod of the head.

 _What._  "Um… alright then…" To be fair, he's probably just nodding because he thinks I'll kill him if he doesn't comply; he probably thinks I'll kill him anyways. "Well, then trust me when I say that I'm here to keep you safe. Okay?"

This time Dio doesn't respond in any sort of way except to close his eyes and relax completely, which makes me panic; his pulse is still there, if a bit weak, but that does nothing to assuage my concerns. So without any further prompting, I carefully secure my mask over his face and cradle his body in my arms before standing to leave; despite the boy likely being close to my height, it not hard to notice how distressingly light he is. When I enter into the airlock, I see the train's already arrived with a connector placed between it and the now-open entrance; the air's still a lot more thin and acrid than in the hallway.

The moment Luce gets done persuading the last of my injured soldiers onto the train, his eyes widen upon noticing me. "Sir, what do you think you're doing? Are you trying to get yourself ki—"

"Please… just help him… You have to help him…"

The Corpsman freezes in the midst of pushing me back towards the bunker to take a look at the unconscious form in my arms; once I summarize details, he switches direction and pushes me towards the train with greater urgency. "You trying to hurt the boy as well? Carrying him like that risks further injury!"

"I didn't know what to do…" I murmur, "Couldn't just leave him."

"You forgot that you could have called me? Our communicators still work down here."  _Oh… right_ ; yeah, I actually did forget. "Also, that mask ain't what he needs."

"I didn't know…"

If but for a moment, the Corpsman stops to sigh. "Sorry for the outburst, sir. I know you're trying to do the right thing, but sometimes that may result in more harm than good. Next time, unless you have nobody else nearby, try to get professional assistance first. Set him down here."

The moment we lay Dio out, Luce immediately takes the mask off him and replaces it with a medical respirator — the gas mask is forced back on my face — before getting to work. During this time, the distant gunfire slowly tapers to nothingness until it gets punctuated with a solitary gunshot — small-arms from the sound — and followed by a stifling silence.

So as not to let my mind wander places and contemplate whether that silence is a good or bad thing, I ask the Corpsman, "Is he going to be alright?"

Luce doesn't mince words: "Hard to say, sir. Bleeding's stemmed, but there's a chance of concussion. Also, there's at least several ribs bruised here, if not outright broken, with the possibility of some internal injury. And with the preexisting state he's in…" he mutters before shaking his head and taking out a marker to draw an "X" on Dio's arm.

"What's that for?"

"I've done what I can, but this boy's injuries need the attention of a doctor; I'm just a nurse with a gun. Fact." That's one way of describing himself, I guess; I think he forgot the part about having enough armament on hand to level a Capitol block. "However, while things are pretty bad right now, I reckon with the right amount of care, he'll be able to pull through…" 

"Doc?" I ask, confused at the way the Corpsman trails off while staring at my left arm. 

"Give me your arm, sir."

Before I can ask, Luce takes my arm, cuts the sleeve away, and proceeds to clean and patch up a gash that I didn't notice. Then he continues as if there's no interruption: "Anyways, the mark gives him priority. Because there are probably going to be a lot more patients that need looking at; at least I  _hope_  that's the case…" he mutters while glancing towards the bunker.

Finally a local soldier named Conrad comes trotting out to state, "Sir, area's been secured; though it's a bit of a foggy mess right now."

 _Thank goodness…_ After giving Dio one brief recheck, Luce runs into the bunker while instructing the backup medical and security team standing by to follow. I follow as well and have Conrad give me a status rundown on the way.

The bad news is that the result wasn't clean-cut: two of our soldiers were downed — one of them's a local; the other has a family who moved here from Thirteen, so I'll personally be giving them the news — and several were wounded. The not-so-bad news is that since everybody was mainly concentrated in one main room — turns out that they did know that we were coming through surveillance devices at the mouth of the tunnel — things were fairly straightforward. If anything, once the squad released several sedative grenades, many Peacekeepers and civilians shot themselves more than they shot at us; this included the Head Peacekeeper who ate her gun before she could get apprehended. In any case, we now have a crowd of drowsy and starving survivors to deal with.

"Sir, is that who I think it is?"

Conrad's query makes me notice that she's currently staring at Dio's unconscious form. "Something the matter, soldier?"

The District Two soldier glances at me and asks, "Do you know that boy's name?"

"Um… it was easier to just say 'Dio'."

"As in 'Diocletian'?"

"Yeah; how'd you know?"

I can hear her let off a puff of air behind that mask. "That's the Generalissimus' son. Wait a moment; let me check something…" I follow Conrad as she walks back towards the bunker to look at the body of the man I shot; once she takes a good long look, she emits a just-as-long whistle. "Yep. This was her husband; don't know why I didn't notice it before."

"Wait," I comment before the solider can say anything more, "I thought Peacekeepers couldn't marry."

"They can't marry people in other districts. However, they're allowed to marry and have children here in Two. Besides, Head Peacekeepers get special privileges anyways," she clarifies for me before giving another glance at the body. "Anyways, this jackass may have been a miner — well… overseer — but he was even more of a loyal fanatic to the Capitol than most Peacekeepers."

"Do you think Di—the boy will be a problem?" If he is, I'm not sure I'll know how to confront the issue considering that I all but promised to let no harm come to him. Though if he recovers, I wonder what he'll think of the man who not only kept him down here for this long, but also directly resulted in the death of his parents, enemies they may be; probably will make Marcus seem downright congenial.

Conrad's answer makes me breathe a sigh of relief: "Honestly, sir, I doubt it. Not much known about the family. Elder daughter joined the rebels and was killed alongside Lyme in the suicide attack. Younger daughter's whereabouts are unknown, though she  _was_  known to be a vocal loyalist. But general consensus about the son has been that he's just… 'weird'. Take from that what you may."

I only think about it for a moment. "Doesn't matter. If he's a threat, we'll… deal with that down the road. Until then, he's like any other survivor. Also," I add, "I'd like this to stay on the down-low." Come to think of it, I'll probably tell Cressida to exempt any footage of him; we got enough material for her to use already. The only thing the public needs to know about that family is that the Head Peacekeeper is no more; they don't need to know anything about Dio.

Anyways, I spend the rest of the time in the main corridor to oversee the evacuation of the scared and confused mass of people. Those who can walk are carefully herded out, while those too weak are carried on stretchers; all the while I can see Luce bounce from person to person to check on their condition and mark on them. Weapons have already been confiscated, and the bodies of the dead — both ours and theirs — are the last things to be loaded.

Once everything is secure, the tunnel is disconnected and we get onboard as the train begins to move. In general, the train ride is a slow, uncomfortable, and crowded ride. Despite that, I still move around to see how everybody is doing; in general it's the usual mix of confusion and wariness, but there's also relief and resignation mixed in with it.

I've just got done checking up on my squad and moving to the next car when a hand grabs my ankle; the grasp is weak but still enough to stop me in my tracks. When I turn to regard the source, I see Dio peering up at me through half-opened eyes; he doesn't say anything or move from where he is — just reaching for me is clearly enough of a chore — but I somehow get the message. To be honest, after all I've done, the gesture is a complete shock.

So I kneel down beside him and take his hand in mine. "It's alright; I'm here. You're safe now. You're going to be okay…"

Even as the boy drifts back into unconsciousness, I keep a firm grip for the rest of the journey out of this hellhole.

 


	9. Sorry

When we finally emerge from the Nut, there's an entire crowd waiting for us; it's as if the whole city decided to fill the square. There is no applause or anything along those lines from the crowd; it probably wouldn't be right either way. However, there is no mistaking the collective look of relief that crosses their faces when we come walking out with the first survivors. Despite the large mass of spectators, they still make a wide path for the survivors when they exit the train and the station. It's during this process that I inevitably let go of Dio's hand as he's taken to the main hospital; I'll probably ask Ma, Marcus, and/or Mercury to look after him when I head to the Capitol tomorrow for Katniss' trial.

Besides the crowd, the media is waiting for us as well, with Cressida and Pollux at the forefront. As promised, only those two are allowed to approach us directly, and I transfer the mission's footage to them; soon everyone will see the fruits of my labor. I only answer a few general questions before directing the camera attention over to the soldiers; they were the ones who did most of the work after all. As that happens, I quietly slip away to walk through the square; Luce already managed to sneak out due to his medic duties.

There's no spot here that's secluded, so I simply settle for sitting on a crate and watching the people either focusing on the event at hand — many of which are looking at the survivors with expressions of hope, which makes me suspect that they are waiting for updates on their loved ones — or merely going about their business. Some notice the identity of the soldier sitting on the crate, and their gazes linger for a bit longer than is usually polite, but other than that they remain impassive. Overall, just regular people living out their lives… lives I would have had no problem snuffing out.

Out of reflex I look straight up and make note of where I'm situated. There's a superstition here that the spot where the statue's sword casts a shadow upon can either bestow good or bad luck. If you're a virtuous or honorable person, you're practically under its protection even if a direct attempt is made on your life; however, if you're the opposite, then passing under there risks misfortune befalling you. It dimly occurs to me that it was at this spot where Katniss and Marcus were that night. If the whole thing is true, I wonder what's going to happen with me.

A tendril of warmth brushes against the side of my face, and I turn to see a mug being held at eye-level by Mercury. As I take the mug with a muttered thanks and sip some of the chamomile tea, the redheaded victor's daughter seats herself right next to me with a mug of her own.

I now know what it is about Mercury Anders that made her so familiar when we first met. Unfortunately, when I figured it out and brought the subject up, I also had to tell Mercury and Marcus that their big brother by blood and bond, respectively, didn't die rescuing people from a fire like they were told; rather he died a… horrible death after living months of a life that's little better. They… took it about as well as any reasonable person would.

Just thinking about Darius sends a bout of shame through me. He was someone I could probably consider a friend at the Hob and ultimately tried to save my life, yet all throughout the war he barely registered within my memory except about that one time that I felt jealousy towards him. It wasn't until Mellark mentioned his ultimate fate that I started to care a bit; when you think about it, it's pretty sick that it took  _that_  to jog my memory.

Another death attributed to my recklessness. Had Darius avoided trouble, I wonder if I would have treated him like any other Peacekeeper to exterminate; if I would have damned our friendship to willfully trap him in a mountain like so many—

The shriek of a child pierces the winter air.

I can't help but jolt back when that sound hits my ears, and it's enough to send me into a state of panic as I frantically look around for the source.  _No! This is supposed to be over! They're supposed to be all safe! What's happening now? It—  
_

It's just Sel being chased by Posy. The boy's short legs patter as fast as possible and giggles emanate from him as he tries to outrun my sister who, in turn, is being tailed by the Anders twins. And right behind the kids, an exasperated and exhausted, yet smiling, Rory follows closely in a futile attempt at herding them back to where Ma and Vick are.

As I watch the children weave their way through the gathering, I notice how my siblings haven't been touched by the same sort of hate that afflicted me. Even when we first got here, they not only enjoyed the surroundings but had no trouble interacting with everyone. In contrast, I still bore resentment towards this place and dismissed the people's anger towards me as unfounded and petty. Even though I never hesitated to state that even the civilians here couldn't be trusted. Even though I whooped for joy as all those people… all those children…

Scenes flash before me… of Sel trapped in the darkness and trying to find his way out as those around him become overcome by the toxic air… of him calling for his brother and desperately running to the sole escape available … of him finally escaping and reuniting with Marcus, only to find the burned Peacekeeper dead under my heel before I, with a wide crazed grin, turn the gun on him…

It's only when I shake myself out of the scene that I notice how obscured my vision and wet my face is. Though as I try to regain control over myself, I feel an arm settle across my shoulders and pull me in towards its owner.

Then I lose it.

An awful sound comes from my throat as the tears flow freely, and I feel myself balling up as I lean into Mercury. Even though she has no obligation to help me, the victor's daughter not only maintains a firm hold with that sole arm, but slowly rocks me while murmuring soft words of comfort. I don't know how much time passes, but during the whole period, all I do is continuously repeat a single phrase that's not just meant for her but for the entire district:

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"

A part of me vaguely notices the surrounding crowd staring at me as if I'm some freak, but I don't really care.

Because I know they could be doing much worse.

I know "worse" is but a fraction of what I deserve.

~oOo~

After Mercury helps me compose myself, I make my way to Luce to say goodbye. With the last patient marked-off, his job's done. I also state my appreciation for his assistance, but he dismisses the latter as wanting to help anyways. Though before boarding his transport — a small aircraft this time, but with a toothy visage still present — to Central, the Corpsman does tell me to visit sometime and that the first drink's on him. Despite the fact that every hint dropped about his little community sets me on edge, I'll probably take his offer within the near future.

It's right on the heels of that where I know what I must do, and I discuss with Cressida what my plan is for the rest of the day. Once I let Paylor in on this plan, she doesn't hesitate in reaching her contact and arranging an impromptu meeting.

So here I am, sitting before the live projection of an imposing and uniformed man in his fifties. The crisp and immaculate uniform, which contrasts white against the dark complexion of its owner, may be sparsely decorated and no longer has Snow's Rose adorning the sleeve; however, there's no denying that it is of a Head Peacekeeper. In Karst Pyke's case, it's formerly that of the Head Peacekeeper of the Capitol; a position which shouldn't be confused with that of the Generalisimus.

Now, Pyke serves as Consul of the Exiles, a group of at least several thousand loyalists who fled One, Two, Four, and the Capitol — there are likely a few that came from other districts as well — to settle in and near the Hadean Wastes. From here, they are about four hundred miles to the northwest, but the Waste itself is actually technically part of Two's proper or at least at its eastern border. During the last days of the war, Pyke himself coordinated a massive evacuation of Peacekeepers and civilians from the Capitol by using the main hospital, Panem General, as a rallying point; that was probably the main factor in the community's decision to make him leader. In any case, despite suspicion from the districts, the Exiles have remained fairly inoffensive, and Paylor has already established working dialogue with them; most people there are probably not fans of me though.

"Commander Hawthorne…" Pyke's greeting is genial enough, if a bit cautious.

"Commander Pyke— I mean, is that the right term to use?"

At my query, the Consul actually lets off a good-humored chuckle. "It's close enough. So… what is it that you'd like to talk about?"

"Well, first off, I'd like to say that this conversation will not only be on the record but may possibly be broadcasted to the rest of the nation." I nod to Cressida and Pollux who are sitting to the side. "Will that be alright?"

He actually looks a bit surprised and thoughtful at that but ultimately nods his head. "That would be fair."

With that out of the way, I get right to the point: "I suspect that you heard about today."

"I did. Antonia didn't surrender peacefully, I take it."

"No, she didn't. Neither did her Peacekeepers."

"Pity," he mutters in a tone that suggests anything but. "I also heard that you still managed to get a large number of survivors out."

"About eight hundred; though it was mostly my team's doing. I was just their CO at the time."

"Either way, at least there's some good news out of this. But I take that this is not what you wanted to talk to me about."

"Well, it's related." I take a deep breath before I continue: "Since Masada's secure, work's going to progress for the rest of the facility. During that time, we'll be removing the remains and identifying them. Each week, we'll send you an updated list for you to be able to show to your community and give the people there closure."

It's obvious that what I say definitely comes as a surprise to Pyke considering the way his eyebrows raise up. "What do you plan on doing with these bodies after all of this?"

"Ultimately, the plan is to restore the main veteran cemetery and construct a memorial to the war." Due to being a place of remembrance for Peacekeepers, the place was vandalized after this district fell. It hasn't been decided yet whether we'll be servicing Two's rebels and loyalists separately, but at least the latter will be interred there. Even if there's a separate cemetery set up for the rebels, it will likely be within proximity, and in the event of a two-cemetery solution, it's agreed that the memorial will still have access to both. "In this case, it will not just serve as internment for whatever Peacekeeper remains we find in general but also the remains recovered from the facility. However…

"If there are people in your community who would prefer that the remains be sent to them, we can either ship them over or have a designated courier of yours pick them up. On the flipside, those who wish to have their loved ones interred here will be allowed to be present for the ceremony. Besides the war memorial, I plan on there being a dedicated memorial at the Aedes Bellonae; no matter when it's finished, there's going to be a memorial service come October to mark what happened, and I invite everybody to be present. We'll even provide transportation for your Exiles free of charge."

After I finish my spiel, Pyke's look of surprise doesn't abate as he simply says, "That's… fairly generous of you."

"I just think it's the decent thing to do…" I mutter.

The moment I say that, the Consul looks critically at me for what seems like several minutes as if he's trying to piece together some puzzle. After what is more likely to be just a couple of seconds, he muses, "You know… is it okay if I be frank for a moment?" I nod and motion for him to continue. "Honestly, you were one of the last people I expected to reach out and make such an offer. Consider me pleasantly surprised."

That makes me snort in reply. "Honestly, if I managed to go back in time to just a couple months ago to tell my earlier self that we'd be having this conversation… at best, I'd be punched in the face; at worst, I'd probably serve as a storage unit for my arrows."

This time, my comment elicits full-blown laughter; I guess he's amused easily. "But seriously, there has to be something you wish in return."

"Well, it'd be nice if you all would come back into the fold, but we both know that's not going to happen right now. In the end, besides the obvious part about retaining the armistice, right now I'll just be satisfied with your lands not being a haven for the Heirs of Winter or any other similar threat to society."

If for just a moment, Pyke's good cheer evaporates. "You don't have to worry about that. Even if we were willing to overlook the dishonorable behavior of those terrorists, we have no intention of drawing attention to ourselves."

"I suspected as much. Either way, do everything you can to keep that section of our frontier secure, and you can bet that I'll do everything in my power to not only stave off any potential threat to your community but also advocate on its behalf when the negative rhetoric inevitably comes your way."

"Funnily enough, I already made a similar, albeit a bit more detailed, agreement with President Paylor. But I have to say that it's still refreshing coming from you, of all people." The Consul leans back to regard me. "If many of the people here did not — forgive my candor — absolutely despise you, I'd suggest coming up to visit sometime. Who knows; maybe it may be possible in the near future."

"That reminds me; there is one other request I have," I add. "I take it you still get reception for our broadcasting services?"

"Yes; why do you ask?"

"Well, I'd suggest at least letting those from District Two know to tune in to watch this evening.

"There's something I'd like to tell them."

~oOo~

I'm back at the spot I sat with Mercury earlier today. Though the sky is now already indigo with the sun having set several hours ago, the place is no less well-lit. Floodlights illuminate the whole square, and several illuminate the statue behind me, highlighting the gilding on the two bronze figures and causing the steel sword they carry to shine.

The lighting is enough that Pollux only needs a small set of lights attached to his cameras to banish any shadows on me. That allows me to notice the crowd that has filled the square; my, Mercury's, and Marcus' families are right at the forefront. For those too far away, my face is projected right onto the mountain face and speakers located at even intervals; not to mention the fact that I'm about to be broadcasted live throughout the nation. A part of me is aware of the similarity to another broadcast that took place here several months ago; like previously, people both here and elsewhere are probably going to judge me for what I say.

Right after a light signals that we're live and Cressida gives a small introduction, I thank the reporter and take a deep breath before beginning:

"About six months ago, Peacekeeper bombers dropped incendiaries on District Twelve, killing over seven thousand men, women, and children. When I saw my home reduced to ash… my friends and neighbors consumed by flames… I vowed that the people responsible would pay; every last one of them. I already had a lot of anger towards the Capitol and the Peacekeepers that enforced its unjust laws, but it was that moment that sent on a path that would lead me where I am today.

"Three months later, every district had been secured by the Rebellion… except for one: District Two, one of three Career districts and the place where Peacekeepers were trained. I don't need to describe what the war was like; most of you listening have experienced it one way or another. But suffice to say, my hatred towards Peacekeepers did not abate, and it extended to the entire district that raised and supported them; the same district that fielded Careers that every child in the districts feared facing if they were to be reaped. And the fact that this district would not recant and join the Rebellion filled me with such rage. So when it came time to deal with the headquarters — the Aedes Bellonae for the people here, the Nut for everyone else — well… you saw what happened; you saw me out there.

"Look, I'm not going to talk about whether my actions were strategically justified; there will probably be debates about that for a long time to come. The thing is… that is all irrelevant; because strategy was not on my mind at the time. It was vengeance; vengeance that would motivate me to bury almost twenty thousand men, women, and children.

"Yes, you heard right about the last part: children. I knew that there were tons of civilians in that facility, but guess what: I didn't care. In fact, I thought the whole lot should perish as payback for those lost in my district. I… I was knowingly playing by the rules of the Capitol. For those who still applaud my actions, let that sink in for a moment. I was knowingly playing by  _Coriolanus Snow's_ rules." I shake my head to mutter, "There's no excuse for what I did. Katniss knew that; while not the only opponent to my plan, she was the most vocal. I should have listened to her… I… I…"

No matter how hard I try, I can't speak anymore as my throat begins to constrict. So I just sit here, staring at the ground as my vision blurs, even though I know that everyone around me is expecting a continuation; the hushed nature of the crowd — so silent that, despite the number of people, I can hear someone coughing in the background — is testament to that.

Suddenly there's a chorus of hushed chatter, but before I can discern what said chatter's about, there's the feeling of a small hand tugging on the leg of my fatigues; when I wipe my eyes and look down to see the source, I'm greeted by a pair of wide brown eyes staring right back at me. "Gell sad?"

Instead of responding to the query, I look back up to establish eye contact with Marcus who's just a few feet in front of the rest of the crowd and frozen in the act of trying to retrieve his little brother. A couple moments pass before he resumes moving; however, instead of continuing forward, he actually steps back to where he was previously standing and follows that up by giving me a small nod.

I get the message loud and clear and, without any further prompting, lean forward to pluck Sel off the ground and set him on my lap; he simply responds by throwing his arms around my neck to embrace me in a tight hug. "Hey, Sel," I murmur as I return the hug, "would you like to say hi to Panem?"

The boy breaks his embrace to offer a wide grin at the camera — I have to point him in the right direction first — and waves vigorously to pipe, "Hi, Panem!"

While I feel pretty shitty right now, I can't help but give a smile at his enthusiasm. After getting done with that, Sel settles for curling up on my lap and nuzzling against my chest.

As I keep my arms around Sel, I feel my throat loosening and look straight back at the camera to say, "This is Sel. You may not know who he is, but you probably know about his big brother. His brother was a Peacekeeper; the very same Peacekeeper who confronted the Mockingjay and decided to protect her when the crowd went out of control.

"Just like how that Peacekeeper decided to give Katniss a chance to speak, Sel decided to give me a second chance at not being the 'Bad Man'. This is despite knowing that I was one who almost killed his brother and killed many who were far less lucky; this is despite being stuck in a Rebel-run prison camp for at least three months, just because his parents did not wish to fight their neighbors. Despite all of that, he decided to forgive me.

"Where am I going with this? Am I asking for the people of District Two to give  _me_  a second chance?" I shake my head once again. "Don't get me wrong, it'd be nice to be forgiven, and I'll appreciate every gesture and word of forgiveness sent my way. But I have no illusions about my legacy, and I understand if nobody wishes to forgive me; I haven't forgiven myself. No matter how many times I apologize, it won't change what I became. So I'm not asking Two to give me a second chance.

"I'm asking the  _districts_ to give  _Two_  a second chance. The war is over, Snow is gone, and those who have committed crimes against the people are being put on trial. In the end, most former Peacekeepers wish for nothing more than to simply get on with their lives like any decent person. But I've heard the rhetoric out there; I've heard the calls for retribution. As one who fell down the path of vengeance, I'd like to ask you all this: if we decide to play by Snow's rules, what point is there for the Rebellion? Because if all we'd be doing is repeating the process of destroying districts and hosting Games, how would that make us any better than the Capitol?

"Unless the plan was never to be better, but to simply shift the reins of tyranny and terror into new hands. Well, to those who have such a plan in mind, let me just say this: I'm currently fighting against terrorists who wish to restore the old tyranny; don't think I'll hesitate in bringing the fight to those trying to install a new one." As if by instinct, my hold on Sel becomes protective and almost shielding, and I actually feel invigorated. "It doesn't matter if it's on the debate floor or a combat zone: if you come to hurt the people here, I'll be prepared to meet you either way.

"I believe that Panem can be a place where people, no matter what their background or where they live, can grow up to live without fear: be it the fear of the Games, fear of starvation, or fear of sanctioned terror. The Mockingjay believed that as well…

"Prove her right."


	10. For Prim

"I'm not even sure what you're trying to prove, Commander Hawthorne."

It takes everything within me not to punch Simms in the face.

He was a terrible commander during the war; the district commanders hated him and gave him the nickname of "ReppleDepple" due to the high mortality and replacement rate of his platoon, and the only likley reason he managed to hold so much power was because of sycophantic loyalty to Coin. Now he's showed himself so far to be an awful attorney during this trial. But he's the one to volunteer to represent the prosecution, and who was the court to deny his request to "spearhead the charge to bring the treasonous Mockingjay to justice"? Asshole.

However, the words "angry and stupid" flash in my head, and I take a few steadying breaths before I can end up saying something I'll probably regret. Maybe I do have some anger issues.

I'm actually one of the last key witnesses to testify on Katniss' behalf, which is just as well considering that this damn trial has dragged on for over a week's time. In the meantime, while most of the testimonies have been in Katniss' favor, I've had to suffer through the all the witnesses — not to mention Simms — who've called her a murderer and ranted about she struck down a "fair and visionary leader" who "blazed the way for the Rebellion and showed the 'two-faced' Mockingjay nothing but generosity"; unsurprisingly, most came from Thirteen, but there's been more than a few from the other districts.

The problem is… everybody saw Katniss shoot Coin in plain daylight, so there's no way that we can dismiss the charges outright. So to combat all those charges laid out, the defense is not just trying to appeal to positive work the Mockingjay has done; its whole strategy is to portray her as being mentally unstable to the point that she couldn't help but shoot the president. Frankly, I find that downright insulting, but if it's what keeps her from the firing squad and out of captivity, anybody who cares about her is willing to swallow that bitter pill. And to be fair, all the accounts — from fellow soldiers in training to Dr. Aurelius, the main rebel psychiatrist — don't exactly paint a pretty picture of her mental health. The same goes for the live, or recently recorded, footage from her captivity; be it her catatonic state or refusal to eat any food provided.

I know that she hates pity, and the last thing she would want is for us to pile that onto her. Then again, I think the only thing she wants to do right now is to die, and I don't intend to play a part in fulfilling those wishes. So when I took the stand and the defense began questioning me, I added more material into the "Krazy Katniss" bin. I mentioned how she shut down after I told her Twelve was gone, how she would hide in small spaces the most of the time, how she completely broke down upon seeing Mellark—no…  _Peeta_  — beaten on Capitol's broadcast, and so on… All the while reminding myself that it's for the benefit of the court and trial.

With the uprooting of Panem's government and the process of putting it all back together in this period of martial law, things are mess in terms of how courts are run. But considering the nature of this case, there is an attempt to have some semblance of structure. Here the court consists of a panel of fourteen civil and military representatives; one of each from the districts and Capitol. In addition to those fourteen and sitting right in the middle of them is the presiding official, Judge Advocate Charlton. Supposedly he, this small unassuming man who was the mayor of Three before and during the war, was picked for the position due to his impartiality by not being involved in the war either way.

The courtroom itself is pretty sparsely occupied for the sake of security, with the occupants mainly various officials from the Rebellion. However, off to the side, there's a group of people representing media, with their cameras out and recording the proceeding to be broadcasted abroad; among them, I can spot Cressida and Pollux, and out of the entire group, they seem to be the only two showing any sort of sympathy to what's going on. Outside, people crowd the streets to demonstrate their opinions on the whole trial, holding up signs and chanting slogans — most calling for her release; some saying that she should pay for her "crimes" — in the process; even in here, it's not hard to hear the muffled sounds coming from the collective mass if you listen close enough.

All in all, it's obvious that the whole thing is just one big performance for the benefit of the public, and I'm starting to have a good idea of what Katniss and Peeta went through in the first place when they were paraded around for the Games and the Tour. I hate it.

Besides the officials, the victors are also part of the audience. They — from left to right: Enobaria, Beetee, Haymitch, Peeta, Mason, and Annie — are huddled together in one row; all of them paying close attention to what's going on and none looking particularly happy; scratch that… they look downright miserable. Out of all of them, Peeta's probably the most miserable of the bunch; he may not be in a state of torture like when he was during captivity, but from the way he looks, that's not saying much. It's obvious that he has not had much sleep, judging from the shadows around the eyes and his pallor complexion; not to mention the way he seems to be affected by the occasional twitch. I'm not even sure if he's able to sit up on his own, or if Haymitch and Mason are keeping him propped upright.

From what I've been told, the baker has done nothing but keep constant vigil over Katniss; not that she's noticed it. Even though it explains his disheveled and frayed appearance, I don't know how he does it. I tried watching her once but could only take in her state of being — especially seeing her grafted skin damaged and peeling away — for so long before fleeing as she started to sing a stanza from the valley song; I couldn't bear seeing someone so strong reduced to…  _that_. And even though I will watch whenever they play footage for the benefit of the court, it's almost unbearably painful to watch, and I have to remind myself that it's supposed to be ultimately for her benefit.

Besides Peeta, the other victor of note is Enobaria. Despite all the rhetoric that I saw her spout — not so much hostile as snide — towards Katniss and Peeta during the Games, and the anecdotal observations that she has maintained some air of aloofness the whole time during and after the war, the victor from Two is currently keeping an air of solidarity with her peers. But that's not what has my attention. What has my attention is the constant look of wariness and spite that she seems to be aiming towards Simms. The more I observe this, the more a horrid picture seems to be coming together in my mind; especially if I recall things correctly that Simms was the commander who replaced Lyme after her death.

But I can't focus on that right now. I have to focus on this buffoon trying to lure me into saying something that will paint Katniss in a bad light. Well, it's not like I'm not already doing that by showing how broken she was during the war; how she would shut down and withdraw once we got back to the safety of Thirteen. Yet, Simms is trying to somehow portray her as some vicious killing machine that eventually set sights on our new tyra—I mean… president. But the main thing right now is that I don't miss are attempts of his insinuations that being in Two has caused me to somehow forget the importance of the Rebellion and "shelter a traitor". Honestly, these implied accusations are really putting my ability to keep my cool to the test.

In any case, before I can say anything, the defense interjects with a tired, "Objection: argumentative."

"Sustained," Charlton acknowledges as he focuses on Simms: "Stick to the point."

The commander from Thirteen raises his hands in supplication. "All I'm trying to point out is that it's strange that for someone so supposedly broken, Soldier Everdeen was able to make all these propos and fight her way to the City Circle."

"During which she lost most of her squad and one of her good friends," I growl out, not caring how argumentative it make  _me_ , "which didn't exactly help her any. And you didn't see Katniss in the Capitol whenever we were resting; how she would shut down in the process."

"If that's so, how was she able to perform those feats in District Eight? You said it yourself that just prior to that visit, she was unstable and even stubborn as to her role. The person I saw in the propos looked anything but that."

"That's because she was doing what she did best: protecting someone. When others are in danger, everything becomes secondary to her. It's why she decided to mingled in that hospital: to give comfort to those who needed it. It's why she fought: to save them from the bombers. It's even why she volunteered to take the mantle in the first place: to protect Peeta Mellark." In my periphery, I can see Peeta sit straighter and cock his head to the side at my words, as if he's trying to figure that part out. "And in the end, it's why she volunteered for the Games: to protect Prim. And when all else failed, Katniss' sister was her life and motivation. So how could you expect for Katniss to maintain herself if that source of happiness was taken from her?"

"And we can all sympathize with her loss," Simms states in a manner that has about as much sympathy as a snapping turtle. "Though I still wonder as to the relevance concerning the constant mentioning of Primrose Everdeen in a case about President Coin's murder."

"Well, considering that Coin killed her, I'd say that Prim's very relevant."  _Oops…_

Those words leave my mouth before I even know what's happening, and, in the wake of that, it's as if someone froze the entire courtroom. Even the people who were up to now busy writing down transcripts of the proceedings look up to stare at me, and the only thing to cause a lapse in the stifling silence is the sound of a tablet being dropped from the media box; even the muffled noises from outside cease to emanate. And as the victors lean forward in anticipation for what I'm about to say next, I can see a small smile form on Beetee's face.

But no reaction is more evident than that of Harold Simms; the way his eye widen and skin pales is testament to that. "Commander Hawthorne… as tragic as Soldier Everdeen's death was, remember that she volunteered for the position as medic. To put the responsibility of her death on President Coin is… spurious at best," the officer from Thirteen mutters as he looks off to the side.

That's when the final piece falls into place, and I mentally kick myself for not realizing it earlier. "You knew…" I breathe.

"Commander Hawthorne…"

"You knew about the plan…"

"That will be all, Your Honor," Simms quickly blurts out while taking his seat. Before I can say anything else, Charlton silences me; though I can see a questioning look in his eyes.

Unfortunately for the Thirteen officer, the defense immediately jumps on this: "Commander Hawthorne, what did you mean when you mentioned this 'plan'?"

"Objection: relevance!" Simms all but yelps.

"The purpose of this court is to determine Katniss Everdeen's mental state of being at the time of President Coin's death. The circumstances as to Primrose Everdeen's death are  _extremely_  relevant in that manner," the defense counters.  _Not worming out of this one, ReppleDepple._

"Overruled," the Judge Advocate murmurs: "I'm interested in hearing this as well."

I was planning on eventually bringing up the subject of those bombs but  _not_  in this setting. Oh well, this all stemmed from me in the first place; I might as well jump straight in. "I don't know the full details. But what I  _do_  know is that the Capitol did not drop those bombs on the City Circle."

This time the opposite reaction takes hold of the courtroom, and frenzied chattering erupts among those assembled before order can be restored; the only ones who don't being talking amongst themselves are the victors, who double their focus on me to the point that it almost becomes unnerving. "Are you telling the court that President Coin was the one to order those bombs to be dropped?" the defense asks.

"That's  _exactly_  what I'm saying, ma'am. And Katniss figured it out."

She takes a deep breath before conceding, "That… that's a pretty steep allegation. What evidence do you have to support this? Why should we believe this theory of yours?"

I can almost feel all of the cameras zooming and focusing in on me, and there's no mistaking the held breath from all present in anticipation for what I'm about to say next.

"Because…"  _You don't have to tell the full story. There are tons of arguments that you can use without incriminating yourself. Don't be a damn martyr._

Except once I see the plaintive expression of Peeta's face searching for answers and the calm nod from Beetee telling me that it's alright, I know exactly what I must do, and the little nagging voice fades into nothingness as I shore myself up to go past the point of no return.

I'm told one of the last things Katniss said before burying an arrow into Alma Coin's heart was a simple statement: "For Prim." 

_Well this is for you, Prim…_

"Because they were my bombs!"


	11. Home

I'm a bit surprised that I've retained my post.

Hell, if anything, I'm surprised I'm not standing in front of a firing squad or hanging off the hilt of a sword.

In any case, Katniss is free and back in Twelve. Well, free is a relative term as she has a travel restriction placed that prevents her from leaving the district; that's not even getting into her questionable state of being that last time we saw her. But the important thing is that she's still alive and no longer in captivity. Peeta will likely be joining her shortly — I actually bet that it'll be within a week from now — though when I last saw him, he was still working with Dr. Aurelius to make absolutely sure that he won't be a threat.

Honestly, my impression during our talks was that he's already fine to go back. Yes, I talked to Peeta Mellark quite frequently. Actually, once it became clear that I would have to be sticking around longer than expected, we became roommates. I needed a place to stay, and it was clear that he needed company, even though Mason, Annie, and Delly were there to help him as well; the funny thing is that he actually had this notion in his head  _I_  needed the company. I don't know how he's able to do so, but the baker held no grudge against me for being responsible for the bombs that not only killed all those children and Prim but also maimed him; when I confronted him about that, the earnest fool just countered that what mattered now was that I was trying to make things right. In the end, I'm not sure if I'd consider myself Peeta's friend — granted, not sure if I'd  _not_  consider me his friend — but there's a sneaking suspicion from me that he doesn't have the same reservations; before I left, we actually swapped contact info, and he made me promise to call when I got back home. Funnily enough, I actually plan on fulfilling that promise.

As for why I had to stay for around a month longer than planned? Well, right on the heels of Katniss being released, Beetee and I spearheaded an inquiry about my bombs being dropped in the City Circle. With the blueprints and simulations the old victor had with him, there was no denying that the bombs were the ones designed in Thirteen. We just had to get the perpetrators.

Commander Simms actually attempted to flee the Capitol right after that court session where I made that fateful announcement. However, he didn't even reach the transportation sector before Paylor's guards apprehended him. Once we actually began the inquiry, ReppleDepple began singing like a caged bird, which helped us apprehend many of the conspirators to convict. Most were officials from Thirteen — it actually didn't take much persuasion for the district to give them up; I guess being leaderless helped — but several were also from the districts and even the Capitol; admittedly to my disappointment, Heavensbee was not a suspect. Since they weren't the ones to actually order the bombing, the officials didn't get the firing squad but instead several years of hard labor. Thing is… if Simms thought that selling out his colleagues would grant leniency, he was sorely mistaken; even if he was able to weasel out of this case, there was another one waiting for him.

After Simms was caught, I went to talk to Enobaria — our first meeting… wasn't exactly dull, and I'm still a bit sore — and confirmed something that nagged at me: the commander from Thirteen was directly responsible for the storming of Two's Victors' Village. So after bomb inquiry, we opened up the case about the killing of Two's victors; Paylor promised to look into the killings in the other districts as well. Besides Enobaria's cooperation during the investigation, several soldiers from Simms' platoon came forward with testimonies of their own; the most damning evidence was a set of photos of Simms actually posing in the ruins of the Victors' Village with the bodies of the victors. Though we didn't stop there but followed up with an inquiry as to his general conduct during his oversight of the district, namely his role in the formation of Camp Victory. A few days later after the convictions, ReppleDepple's sentence was carried out in Two; he didn't have to struggle for long since the rope broke at the halfway point.

Maybe it's just politics and the desire to not harm two key members of the Rebellion; maybe we're actually too invaluable to the rebuilding effort to waste, as Beetee states; and maybe, despite my rhetoric while designing them, just being the designers legally — morally, personally, and ethically is a whole other matter — absolves us of blame. In any case, no charges were filed against either me or the old victor. What's more, we still got to keep the jobs we had. While I understood how Beetee was invaluable, how I managed to retain my command position still baffled me, especially in Two of all places. Paylor just countered that out of all available people, I was the one with the most working experience with the district, regardless of my history with them; after some debating, I relented to her points.

However, I did have a few conditions. Any awards or decorations I received were rendered invalid, and I'm barred from being decorated for any action taken during the Rebellion; only exception is a neutral black and gold ribbon recognizing my participation in the war. When Paylor brought up my post-war actions in Two, I pointed out that Luce deserves most of the credit for Camp Victory and that the rest of the squad plus Marcus did most of the work for Operation Fretensis. Furthermore, much of my wage was to be garnished for at least the next few years to go to various charities: for this year, most would serve as compensation to those who lost their loved ones in the bombings as well as to pay for expenses in treating any survivors — Beetee also chipped in an amount equating to two full years of his victor's salary for this purpose — while the remaining percentage would go into a memorial fund for District Two. In the meantime, during my stay, I tried to make it a point to meet with each of the families of the children and the surviving children themselves; while many understandably wanted nothing to do with me, others did take up the offer — most of the time via support groups — and some actually invited me to visit their homes, which I'll admit wasn't exactly the easiest thing to do.

Though at this point, those visits are likely less painful than what being back home is probably going to be.

_"It's easy to take for granted the pedestal someone puts you on until it gets shaken."_

When Beetee spoke those words to me, I didn't think much of them. And despite the painful — at least for me — falling-out Katniss and I had, I wouldn't exactly say that she put me on any sort of pedestal. So his statement quickly faded into the dark recesses of my memory and simply stayed there.

Until I spoke with my family.

Since I was unable to go home; I had to resort to contacting them via vid-com. Ma, while concerned, was glad that I was taking on the responsibility of heading these efforts; Vick was a bit subdued but still eagerly asking me when I'd be back; Posy was just happy to talk; but Rory…

During the entire time he was present, Rory refused to make eye contact with me and just sat there to stare off to the side in silence. When I finally couldn't take it anymore and tried speaking directly to him, he responded by getting up and walking off, but not before sending me a single glance — one a kid his age should never hold — full of disappointment and betrayal. No anger though… which just made things worse. 

My brother's never one to be mastered by emotions, and many have found it unnerving. But his lack of anger wasn't the usual stability; it was just… nothing, and it proved Beetee right in how preferable being yelled at can be.

After futilely calling after him, Ma tried to assure me that Rory would come around, but I knew the damage had been done. I never really considered just how much I valued the bond between us… how much I valued being his big brother… until that moment. Now… now I'm not sure there's a bond to be had any more.

In any case, it's not like I can hold off the impending unpleasantries much longer considering that I've just reached my destination.

Despite the fact that I could have taken the straight-shot of a hovercraft here in a shorter amount of time, I decided to take the overnight train instead; the result is the time I step off the platform being around 0430. As the main station is still being worked on as part of the Nut's reclamation, one of Martius City's old Peacekeeper service depots functions as the temporary transportation terminal.

While I told everybody that I was coming back today, I decided to not mention which train I'd be riding; besides, it's a bit early to call for a ride anyways. So I use the time to walk around town. Even though it's still going to be a while till the sun rises — the dark sky is just getting a silver quality towards the east — the people here are early risers, and shopkeepers are already getting things set up. Everybody I come across gives me a nod in greeting — most are cordial if a bit cautious, some are still a bit begrudging, and a surprising few are actually friendly — and I reciprocate in kind; it's quite a bit of progress from the hostile stares I've received in the beginning, but I still have a ways to go in that regard.

Before long I finally reach the square. It's amazing how much they have cleaned up the place while I was gone, with many of the surrounding buildings already fixed up as well. Somebody has also replaced the crates in the middle with a set of polished marble blocks from the Justice Building. As I sit myself on the stone surface, the sun starts to peek over the horizon, sending its rays across the lightening sky and bathing the mountain range in a warm buttery glow; that glow reflects off the statue in a luminous manner that gives it a life of its own. Speaking of life, the early snowmelt has spurred the wildflowers to paint the rocky slopes in a patchwork of rainbow hues that contrast with the dark green of pine and white of aspen. That wild colorful landscape is complemented down in the square where the old cultivated cherry trees that border it become almost cloudlike as their branches get laden with fragrant blossoms; petals flutter down from those branches and swirl in the breeze like a pink-tinged snowfall. 

Even when I glance upon the wreckage of the old Justice Building, it's not loss I feel but hope. Because already the people here are planning on rebuilding and restoring the structure to its former grandeur. As in not just from before this bitter war broke it with violence or a Games-drunk Capitol shackled it with tyranny, but rather from its days as Summit Hall before the Dark Days and even Panem itself.

I never would have admitted it before, but after all the people I've met and surroundings I've experienced, I really think I like it here.

"I told you my home's a beautiful place."

 _It can't be…_  When I turn in shock to regard the source of the familiar voice, I'm greeted by a just-as-familiar smirk full of youthful mischief yet devoid of ill-intent; light brown eyes crinkled in amusement and haphazard spikes of red hair just further highlight their owner's laidback attitude. However, that lackadaisical theme is contrasted with the clean-cut and well-kept nature of his Peacekeeper uniform, as well as the polished helmet sitting on his lap and casually drummed at with gloved fingertips. The only thing unfamiliar is the lack of even a single speck of coal dust on him.

Despite the look the Peacekeeper gives me in anticipation of some sort of response, the only thing I can articulate is, "You're supposed to be dead!"

That just earns a snort from him. "Well hello to you too, sunshine."

"I mean, of course it's great you're here but—"

"—I was Avoxed and later chopped up into mini Dariuses. Or is it Darii?" Darius looks thoughtful for a moment before shrugging. "Yeah, I'm about as dead as can be."

"Then how…"

"Maybe this is just a dream and I'm a manifestation of your subconscious. Maybe this is really me and I've come from the  _beyond_." For that point, he makes sure to gesticulate in a manner that's supposed to be spooky. "Or maybe… just maybe you finally went off the deep end and are about to become one of those guys who 'see things' and ramble to themselves in public."

"… Thanks." Part of my mind or not, it's definitely Darius.

"Anytime," he chirps back with a grin.

We spend a few moments looking at Mars and Bellona before I finally murmur, "You know, I  _am_  truly sorry." Despite him more than likely just being a figment of my imagination, I still find the need to say that.

For once, the look in Darius eyes takes on a melancholic aspect as his smirk slightly shifts down. "I know."

"Not just about the Nut, but also the way I viewed all of you. For all I know, if you weren't already taken by the Capitol, I could have possibly killed you without thinking twice, and I would have been happy to do so. The whole time I didn't even think once about the fact that you tried to save my life and got…"

"Dariized for my troubles?"

"… That's one way of putting it." I really hope I don't start using that term as a verb. "But you get the point."

"Gale, I won't lie: you've done some pretty bad shit. Even without those actions, you became a bit of an asshole to boot; not just in terms of how you viewed your enemies but also how you treated certain people on your side."

I don't say anything to that but simply bow my head in acknowledgement. Even if I didn't make those bombs, it's now clear as day that I was alienating Katniss long before the war.

"But like Peeta said," Darius continues, "if you were truly an evil person, you wouldn't be beating yourself up about it; you'd continue justifying your actions until you died a bitter shell of a man… assuming someone didn't kill you first. But you didn't continue down that path; sure it took some prodding to get through that stubborn skull but realization usually doesn't happen overnight anyways, and you're not you unless there's some stubbornness. What matters now is that you're trying to make right."

"I guess…"

"Come on… let's show a little positive conviction for a change, Commander Hawthorne. Hm?"

"We'll see…"

"That's more like it," he says while patting me atop the head.

I bat his hand away to grumble, "Isn't there some rule about treating a superior officer like this?"

"You aren't in uniform, we're in different armies, oh and I'm dead. I think the last part should offer me some privileges."

"Even if you're just part of my subconscious?"

" _Especially_  if I'm part of your subconscious."

Despite myself, a smile, which was already beginning to form when Darius was tousling my hair, grows; next thing I know, both of us are laughing as if the funniest joke had been told. Maybe I  _am_ turning into the one of those crazies; there are worse people I could be imagining.

As our laughter trails off, I mutter, "You do know that death has not changed how aggravating you can be, right?"

"It's part of my charm," the Peacekeeper chirps.

"Seriously though. it's good to see you, Darius."

"Same here, Gale. Who knows, maybe you'll see me again," he says with that grin of his. "Oh, and bless you."

"Wha—"

* * *

As I sneeze, the scene shatters and is thrown into complete murkiness. Past that haze however, I'm slightly aware of the fact that I'm currently curled up and using my duffel as a pillow. I'm also aware of the young and animated chatter around me.

"See, I told you he's not dangerous."

"Well that's because he's sleeping."

" _Was_  sleeping; look, he's waking up."

"Are you sure it's even him? He looks a bit different from the propos."

"I'm sure. Besides, the bag says 'Hawthorne, G'."

"Poke him again."

Finally, I force my eyes open and, after that initial period of blindness and focusing, see that I'm indeed still in the square and on the marble block; so that part wasn't a dream. From the amount of brightness and warmth complimenting the cool breeze washing up against me, the time's now much later in the morning if not close to noon already. Granted, it's hard to fully take in my surroundings when there's a gaggle of children — most probably around Vick's age — crowding around me, with one in the middle holding a pine branch to my face.

I think I found the source of my sneeze.

The moment they notice that I'm now — somewhat — fully awake, the whole group freezes with wide-eyed expressions not unlike that of spooked prey; the branch may no longer be on a forward trajectory, but its needles still hover just inches from my nose. Despite the initial irritation that comes with being roused from a nap, I have to suppress a chuckle while, without even lifting my head, mumbling, "What are you doing?"

Everybody begins shifting glances towards the branch-wielding kid who just utters an, "Uh…"

Nothing follows that complex statement as all children look up and past me before bolting off in all directions. Before I'm able to call after them that I'm not  _that_  dangerous, the sound of uneven yet rapid footsteps serves as a prelude to a youth limping into my field of vision.

"Yeah, you little ruffians better run!" Marcus bellows while waving his new cane over his head; Rory actually made the design-spiraled item for him by carving it out of cherry and, for the handle, the antler of a mule deer he downed back in January. Frankly, the former Peacekeeper's actions sort of make him look like he's several times his actual age. "Stupid brats…" Okay, he  _sounds_  like an old man as well.

"They were just being kids," I counter as I shift up to a sitting position and begin stretching out. "How'd you find me?"

"How'd you think I found you?" he grumbles while trudging back. "Since you didn't contact us or anything when you arrived, it was obvious where you'd be."

"I just needed time to think. Wasn't sure if I was ready to head home and face Rory yet."

A puzzled expression forms on Marcus' face. "What's wrong with Rory?"

"Isn't it obvious? He hates me."

The former Peacekeeper takes a while to respond to that proclamation of mine. When he does, it's just a simple, "Gale…"

"And really, can you blame him?"

"Gale."

"It's just as we—"

"Gale!" Marcus' last snapped attempt finally succeeds in shutting me up, and he just takes a deep breath to state, "Right now… I think stupidity has completely replaced that anger of yours."

If I was going to say anything else, that statement keeps me quiet.

"Do you seriously think your brother hates you?" Before I can respond, Marcus adds, "Oh, no doubt that Rory's pissed right now; well… as much as he's capable of being pissed. Dinner's going to be awkward as hell tonight and likely for the next few nights. Oh yeah, and he's probably going to give you the silent treatment for just as long. But honestly…  _honestly_ … do you think that translates to hate; hell, do you think it translates to an end of his love for you?"

"I… I really don't know…"

"That's because it doesn't. Actually, I'm betting that if Rory didn't love you, he wouldn't be as upset as he is."

"… I'm still not entirely sure he wants to see me right now."

"You're probably right," he concedes. "But unless you're plan on dragging this out, you two are going to have to talk sooner or later; if just for everyone else's sake."

"I know," I mutter with a sigh before shifting the subject: "By the way, I'd like to offer you a job."

The moment I say that, a familiar guarded expression — one more in line with what I knew from several months back — settles on Marcus' face. "With all due respect, Gale…" — I'll admit, even though he's done so ever since he moved into our home and only when I'm out of uniform, there's still some surrealism in him calling me by my first name — "I'm not sure if I'd be comfortable doing that. Don't get me wrong, I respected President Paylor when she was a commander, and think that she's on the right track right now. But still…"

"That's exactly why I'd like you to be my advisor. You still know the ins-and-outs of this district. More importantly, I want somewhere there to tell me if I'm starting to cross a line, especially since I'm planning on turning full focus in combating the Heirs." Judging by the thoughtful look on his face, I know I'm getting somewhere with that. But just for the sake of making things easier, I decide to push a certain button: "Besides, do you want to spend the rest of your life just living off victor payments?"

As recognition to the work and symbol of the victors, Paylor reinstated is the monthly salary to not only the remaining ones but also the spouses and children of those who were killed in the Quell and the Rebellion; this also includes the assets confiscated and held back during the war. So, even if they didn't get a job, both the Wilsons and Anders have more than enough money to thrive right now; except I know the Two philosophy on handouts without any work to show for it.

Judging from the scowl Marcus shoots me, I definitely hit the right spot. "You've been here too long." As I give a shrug at that statement — he still hasn't figured out that Two doesn't have a monopoly on such views of debt — the former Peacekeeper mulls the subject over in his head a bit before finally asking, "Can I have a few days to think on it?"

"That's fair," I concede with a nod as I stand and pick up my bag. "On another note… since now you're getting a good amount of money anyways, are you all planning on getting your own places?"

Instead of answering me directly, Marcus regards me with analytic stare and asks back, "Do you want us to leave?"

"Well, our siblings seem to be getting along, and Ma likes looking over you all, and, well, there are so many rooms and—"

"In other words, you'd like us to stay."

"If, uh, you and Mercury don't mind."

The moment I say that, Marcus gives me a full smile; I think it's the first time he's even done so, and it's as if spring's come early. "Sure, we'll stay." The smile turns wry. "Though I hope you have a plan if any of us gets married. Because… you know…"

"Even if you couldn't make echoes in our home, you do realize we have over a couple square miles of land, right?" I remark with a grin as we walk to the military utility vehicle parked at the edge of the square.

"By the way, there's someone who wants to see you," Marcus states. As I see Mercury get out of the passenger side of the vehicle, the former Peacekeeper quickly adds, "Not her. I mean, Merc's happy you're back, but she's not the 'someone' I'm talking about."

Before I can ask whom Marcus  _is_  talking about, Mercury moves to open the back door door to begin helping out a teenage boy. It actually takes me a few moments to recognize who it is. It could be because his sandy hair has been shorn down to regulation length; it could be because he's in hospital pajamas instead of a uniform; it could also be that while still fairly thin and obviously on the physically weak side, he no longer has a sickly and starved look. However, even as realization begins to fall into place, I only need to see the still-healing scar on the side of the boy's face to know his identity.

That recognition causes me to freeze in my tracks. "About his parents… Does… does he know that I—"

"Yeah, he knows," Marcus quietly murmurs with a nod. "Thing is, he's really not all that broken up about that fact. Well… he's broken up that he's not broken up."

 _What._  "What."

"Exactly," he answers with a slight grimace. "I can see why some of my comrades thought he was weird. And I'm beginning to suspect…"

The way he trails off causes some internal alarm bells to ring. "What is it?"

"Later." The tone of finality in that single word pretty much tells me that the subject is not to be talked about in public. "Then again, whenever we visited him, the boy's been nothing but friendly; still a bit scared of rebels, but friendly. In any case, the hospital's noted that he's healthy enough to have leave for limited periods of time; this is the first time he's making use of that."

"So who's going to take care of him once he's released?"

"Don't know. I don't think there are any surviving relatives, so most likely he'll be going to a community home." Judging by the increased grimace on Marcus' face, that's not exactly a good thing; I guess that terrible group homes are a constant between districts.

However it's just another thing to think about later, as Dio takes notice and begins limping in my direction, with Mercury staying by his side to help him along; granted, he doesn't have to move far considering that Marcus and I have already reached the vehicle. Even after the explanation, I seriously expect for the boy to at least be a bit upset, but there's no anger or even fear to be found when I regard him; just nervousness and anticipation. He actually even stands at attention — very fidgety attention — before me even though neither of us are in uniform; at least he doesn't salute. "Good morning, Commander Hawthorne."

"Uh… morning. You can relax, Dio," I say.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."  _Good grief…_  I can't help but share an aside glace with Marcus who, as uptight as he can be, is just as bemused.

"So…" I state with a cough, "I'm told you wanted to see me."

"Yes, sir. I—"

"Please don't do that." This time, I can't keep the pleading tone from seeping into my voice. Yeah it's good to respect one's elders and superiors, but this frankly veers into the zone of pitiful and slightly unnerving.

Dio just looks confused. "Sir?"

" _That._  I'm not in uniform, and I'm, what, four… five years older than you at most. You don't have to call me 'sir'. Really, 'Gale' can suffice."

He actually looks mortified at the idea. "Sorry, sir."

As pinch the bridge of my nose to recollect all my thoughts, I mutter, "Okay we'll work on not using 'sir' as everyday punctuation later. Anyways, I'm glad that you seem to be getting better."

I don't miss the way the boy perks up at my comment. "Thank you si—Commander Hawthorne."  _Okay, that's really not any better._  "I just wanted to thank you for rescuing me and the others from the Aedes Bellonae. And… also for being there during the trip out…"

"It's was the least I could do."

"Still… thank you. I'm sure you'll continue to be a great commander here."

I really don't know what to say to that. Maybe Dio's just saying that because I'm in a position of authority, but he's not striking me as anything but earnest. So what I settle for is a simple, "Thanks."

Then an idea comes to mind:

"Say, would you like to join us for dinner tonight? I know Ma won't mind having a new guest present, and the rascals are always looking for a new playmate."

That request seems to knock the boy off guard as those bright amber eyes of his widen to accompany a stammer: "I-I would like—I mean I appreciate that, sir. But I'm not sure…"

Mercury must already anticipate what his reaction would be as she explains. "You're healthy enough that periods of leave are allowed up to twenty-four hours at a time. All we need to do is let them know where you'll be, which I've already taken care of."

"So what do you say?" I ask.

It's already clear what Dio's about to say considering that his expression — I'm not even sure if he's aware as to how wide he's grinning right now — makes a child on Parcel Day look absolutely ungrateful. "That would be wonderful, sir."

I just grin right back at him and my housemates while gesturing to our ride. "Well, what are we waiting for then?

"Let's go home."


	12. Epilogue

***Over Five Years Later…***

A cool breeze rustles the tapestry of color — the gold of tulip poplar and beech; orange of maple; scarlet of oak; red of gum, sourwood, and sumac; near-purple crimson of dogwood; green of ceder, pine, and a few late latecomers… — carpeting the surrounding mountains set under the deep blue of the cloudless sky. Besides the colorful scenery, the melodic calls of chickadees, buntings, parakeets, meadowlarks, and mockingjays signal that there's still a bit of life left for this fall.

However, it isn't this beautiful and familiar setting that I'm thinking about as I stand at the station. What I'm thinking about is how nice it would be to hop on the next train back home; actually, I don't care where it would take me as long as it's not here.

The moment I glance towards the nearest ticket counter, a strong hand grasps mine as its owner huffs, "Ohnoyoudon't…"

I look back at Mercury to sigh, "This is a mistake."

In return, she sends me a look holding no small amount of amused weariness. "You didn't seem to mind coming here the last time."

"That's because  _she_  was in Four celebrating the lifting of her travel sanction."

"Well, this was going to have to happen sooner or later. Your family, not to mention Marcus, has already visited them… several times. I can't even count how many times you and Peeta see each other."

"Da-arn nosy Bread Boy trying to play diplomat…" I grumble.

"'Trying'? Last I checked, he's the one who arranged this meeting in the first place and managed to at least get you to this point. If this is merely 'trying' for him, I'd seriously like to see what success is like."

I send a scowl in Mercury's direction; not like she didn't have a hand in this either. "Isn't this supposed to be where you take my side?"

She shoots back a sweet and innocuous smile while crooning in a just-as-sweet manner, "Would you have married me if I was like  _that_?"

After a deliberate pause, I lean forward for a kiss. "Nah."

It's impossible to miss the grin of triumph forming on her lips. "Didn't think so," she states as we part. "Besides, you do know that you're going to have to meet her in person next year anyways, right?"

"I know. Though we could just—"

I'm silenced by another kiss while an arm loops around mine to lock firmly in place. "No weaseling out of this one. And, considering all you have gone up against, what are you so scared of? I mean, you had a drink with the woman who shot you for crying out loud."

"And I still consider visiting the Exiles way less intimidating than what I'm about to do."

"Either way, you're still doing it, so let's go." Sometimes, I forget how persistent Mercury can be.

"Go! Go! Go!" squeals the little demon on my shoulders.

"Yeah yeah… we're going," I sigh up at him, even though it's impossible to keep from smiling despite him using my head as drum set.

It's amazing how much District Twelve has been transformed just several years after it was reduced to ashes. Probably the difference that's most apparent at first, yet only noticeable to those who have lived here before the war, is the conspicuous lack of coal dust pervading every single nook and cranny of the place; not having a mine operational would do that. In place of the mine, a pharmaceutical production factory — just across the tracks from the station and hovercraft port — serves as the core source of employment for the vast majority of original District Twelve residents who returned after the war; the tall brickwork water tower emblazoned with a vertically-arranged "TWELVE" and topped with the corporate logo of the facility's owner, Panem Dynamics, rises adjacent to the complex and functions as a landmark for the district itself.

While the district population has already reached pre-war numbers, and probably is going to surpass them in the next couple years, only a small percentage is made up of those originally from Twelve. Funnily enough, at least a third are actually from Two: first as construction workers who decided to settle, and later as soldiers trained and stationed in Camp Artemis. The small Army base, which is home to the Third Ranger Battalion, occupies most of what used to be the Seam; indeed, the only other time I was here was for Camp Artemis' dedication ceremony. Most of the rest of the former Seam is going to serve as the eastern campus to the University of Panem. The one spot that isn't going to be expanded into is the Meadow, which is not just a park but continues to serve as a memorial ground.

Infrastructure has also been overhauled from before. No longer is communication and power an intermittent thing, and besides how all the roads have been comprehensively paved, cable-drawn trolleys now serve as the main source of transportation throughout the district. That much is apparent as we walk down the short boulevard between the station and the square. Before it was rickety houses — as a kid, they looked like the sturdiest structures barring the Justice Building — lining a dusty street; now it's a park surrounding a stone-paved and rail-imbedded road.

Another thing that's apparent are all the soldiers in uniform going about their business; that means that, despite myself being out of uniform, I'm going to have to go through what I've long dubbed the "Salute Gauntlet".

Sure enough, once the nearest soldier notices who I am, he hurriedly issues me a salute while barking out, "Good afternoon, Commander!"

Now, I'm not obligated to return that salute and my hands aren't exactly free; however, I'd probably be quite the dick if I didn't acknowledge it. So I nod my head in his direction; I think my passenger is saluting back though. This goes on for a while — to the point that I'm pretty sure I'm going to get a crick in my neck — until finally, the soldiers ahead of me have further notice and issue me a collective salutations; it gets everything out of the way nice and easy.

At the entrance of the square, the park gives way to the Gateway of Remembrance. As the boulevard ends, two six-foot-high walls of red granite form a corridor flanking the roadway before each terminates at a tall pillar of marble; along the walls are inscribed the names of every person killed and unaccounted for during the bombings, and on the pillars are messages in memoriam of the event. As we pass through the Gateway, we come into the main square which has been completely rebuilt. Probably the most notable thing is that all of the stone — mainly limestone, granite, and marble — used not only to build up both the Gateway and the town center was voluntarily provided by District Two… completely free of charge. When Paylor tried to compensate Two, they just transferred the money to the war memorial fund.

The donation's seen in the buildings surrounding the square. In place of old coal-soaked shops are sturdy structures of brick and stone; however, it's clear that they were built with this district's former aesthetics in mind, and in front of each shop is a marker memorializing the original occupant. Directly in front of me, what used to be the moldy Justice Building is now a large administrative and legal center of marble and limestone; owing to the district's heritage, the doorway is accented with anthracite bricks. Also included in the center is a museum and library; the latter part of a national initiative started by Paylor. To the right is the residential district; past the initial houses built by those who came back first, brick high-rises serve as the majority of housing for the increasing population without expanding outward too quickly. And to the left, streets that used to lead down to the Seam now lead to the base, school, and hospital.

The place has definitely changed… for the better.

Though I wish I knew where I'm hearing geese from.

As I take this all in, the feeling of a tiny fist tugging away at my hair signals to me that somebody wants down. I carefully extricate the toddler from my shoulders and, the moment I set him down on the ground, he immediately sets off running as fast as his legs can go; all things considered, he's actually going at a decent clip though his arms are still held out for balance; he trips a couple times but immediately gets up and brushes himself off to continue on as if nothing happened. So Mercury and I follow —  _dammit… more salutes_  — our son as he chases wind-borne leaves, his soft copper hair bouncing and fluttering to shine like flames in the sunlight.

Suddenly he stops, seems to sense something, and proceeds to take a hard left to one of the shops. Like the rest of them, it's a multi-level — at least three floors plus what looks like a patio on the rooftop — brick structure that's far larger than anything the merchants had before; the top two floors can probably easily fit an extended family comfortably. Bushes — primroses, it looks like— line the front of a full-length sheltered wood porch furnished with benches, chairs, and tables. Past the porch, floor-to-ceiling windows exhibit the various products the place has to offer; I don't have to take a close look to know what's on display as I already can smell it from here and now know what has earned my son's attention. So it's no surprise to me when the sign I read states:

MELLARKS' BAKERY AND PÂTISTERIE

" _Pâtisserie"? Somebody's been dealing too much with the Europans._

We're barely a few yards away when a blond apron-wearing baker comes striding out the shop with a smile. The moment my son sees that, he lets out a squeak and scurries to hide amongst the primroses; in other words, he simply moves and crouches down  _in front_ of the bushes to block his own vision with his hands.

The broad-shouldered young man before me has come a long way from the mental wreck of a boy I saw during and right after the war; even the burn scars, while still noticeable if you pay attention, have faded away considerably. Without any further prompting, and without dropping that smile of his, Peeta Mellark trots down from the porch to envelop me in a crushing hug.

"I'm glad you made it, Gale," he says before including my wife in his embrace. "Same to you, Mercury."

"Well, somebody was being a little overly persistent," I grumble. "After a certain point, it's easier just to get whatever they want out of the way so they'd shut up."

"Aw…  _somebody_  else was saying the same thing to me earlier today," Peeta chirps back before turning towards the primroses with heightened enthusiasm. "And is it just me, or is there a rascal hiding about?"

The toddler lifts his head out of his hands to peer back at us for a moment before resuming "hiding" again. However, all Peeta has to do is walk over to him and hold out a sugar cookie; right when that cookie comes within proximity, my son goes from hiding to staring up like a prairie dog with silvery eyes wide with anticipation and pudgy hands held all the way up.

As that's happening, somebody else comes out of the bakery to regard the small group at the foot of the steps. It may just be nostalgia talking, but I see little difference between the girl who shot squirrels for trade and the woman standing in a bakery apron; sure there are the faded scars and the presence of accumulated experiences in her eyes, but that's about it. In any case, it's as if everything else fades into nothingness as we both freeze and stare at each other as if daring the other person to make the first move.

I decide to be that other person. "Hey, Catnip."

That name hasn't been said out loud in six years, yet it comes out almost reflexively if a bit on the rusty side. It also seems to have an effect as Katniss comes walking — with no small amount of caution — the rest of the way to envelop me a hug.

I assure you that, as the two of us embrace each other, all of the tears and sobbed apologies are attributed to Peeta.

When we break apart, I totally do not wipe my eyes and clear my throat to say, "By the way, I'd like you to meet two very important people."

Mercury doesn't even need any prompting as she hugs my former best friend. Katniss then looks upon my son — who's now perched in Peeta's arms and eagerly gesticulating for this "new friend" to hold him — with a smile and no small amount of wonder. As the boy gets transferred to her, she looks down at him to croon, "And who are you?"

"I Dah-wee-us," he enunciates with no small amount of pride; he just learned how to say his own name, so right now it's kind of a big deal to him.

I guess Peeta never told Katniss my son's name considering the way her smile becomes pained, especially when little Darius begins tugging on her braid, and she turns to me with a just-as-pained questioning look.

"It just seemed appropriate to name him after his uncle," I remark with a small shrug.

While Katniss holds Darius close to her, it's impossible to miss Peeta beaming at the two. The moment she sees that stupid grin, the huntress looks down at my son, then back at her husband before shaking her head while grunting, "Nope."

Peeta's grin turns into a pout, and I think I have a good idea as to what the unspoken conversation between the two just was. Thing is, when I see my former best friend slowly rocking my son back and forth, one thought comes to mind:  _Not a good mother my ass…_

As Peeta ushers all of us inside — apparently we have four guest rooms to choose from; something tells me that the baker isn't intending on keeping all of them as that purpose — and to my slight consternation, mentions how Haymitch will be joining us, Katniss murmurs, "So Gale…"

"Yeah?"

"You up for hunting tomorrow?"

Despite the likely fact that this hunting excursion will likely involve a very long and uncomfortable discussion on the horizon, a smirk still appears unbidden on my face. "I thought you'd never ask."

I hold no illusions that my friendship with Katniss will be like it was back then; hell, there may be no real friendship to be had anymore. But as I watch Darius fall asleep in her arms, hear Peeta list off what's for dinner tonight, and feel Mercury's fingers intertwine with mine, I also know that there's no point living in the past and in terms of "what-ifs".

Up to now, there are many things I have been and many things I still am: son, brother, hunter, friend, lover, miner, leader, ally, soldier, enemy, planner, monster, commander, activist, philanthropist, husband, father…

There are also many things I can possibly be and just as many paths I can possibly take; no one will know for sure what they are until I reach each of those stages of my life. In the end, there's only one thing to be sure about:

I plan on sticking to the high road.

* * *

**The End**


End file.
